


On the Madhouse Boards

by lori (zakhad)



Series: Captain and Counselor [38]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-27
Updated: 2009-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-05 08:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 137,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zakhad/pseuds/lori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Deanna Troi must see to the safety of her crew, her ship and her captain, even if her captain is actively working against her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Broken Bridge

**Author's Note:**

> I began writing this story in 5/01, responding to suggestions made back in 2000 to earlier installments in the Captain and Counselor series. The feedback that started the story came from three different sources. The first one summed up the basic suggestion well:
> 
> "You've shown several situations where Deanna was hurt or in danger, and it's made me wonder how they would handle it if Picard were to go through another experience like his capture by the Borg or the Cardassians, particularly if physical pain were involved. Would he try to close himself off, as he's done in the past, and deal with it himself? Would his need for Deanna's closeness override his desire to protect her from his emotional and physical suffering? I can actually see him going either way."
> 
> As usual, the story grew beyond the original concept. Various story arcs that progress through the series touch this story, even ones not readily apparent--the stories that will come after this one will probably show that better.
> 
> I believe you can read this as a stand-alone, but that having read the series will illuminate certain elements, as the flashbacks and hallucinations often refer to other stories. Several things mentioned or included (Phoebe, a kinder and friendlier Nechayev) have yet to be explained in a prequel that will be written later.
> 
> A thousand thank-yous to Jerie and Rocky, whose suggestions made a huge difference and bred more plot bunnies

god's terrible face,brighter than a spoon,   
collects the image of one fatal word;   
so that my life(which liked the sun and the moon)   
resembles something that has not occurred:   
i am a birdcage without any bird,   
a collar looking for a dog,a kiss   
without lips;a prayer lacking any knees   
but something beats within my shirt to prove   
he is undead who,living,noone is

I have never loved you dear as now i love.

Hell(by most humble me which shall increase)   
open thy fire!for i have had some bliss   
of one small lady upon earth above;   
to whom i cry,remembering her face,

i have never loved you dear as now i love

= e.e. cummings =

=--=--=--=--=

T minus 10 days, 8 hours

Beneath his shoulders, a gravel floor, cold. From the shoulder blades down, he felt nothing. The full meaning of this only came to him as he lay there trying to see his surroundings, breathing in gasps and spitting the taste of dirt. He tried to move his legs, thought he'd done so, but the impulse went nowhere. Reaching with his right arm sent pain radiating from his shoulder outward and when he woke again afterward, he felt residual throbbing in his fingertips that meant he must have struck them against something hard.

"Dee," he gasped.

The sound didn't go far. He was buried alive, he decided, as something creaked over him and debris pattered on his chest.

The ache began. She was gone. The ship was gone, or --no. Better that the ship be gone. *Enterprise* had a long reputation of escaping death more often than not.

"Cygne." The word barely reached his own ears.

The gravel wasn't really gravel. His head moving against it made that clear. It was the remnant of the mosaic he had been standing in front of, and shards of tile stabbed and probably broke the skin. Whatever had happened, the mission was over. He hoped the ship had merely retreated out of his range, and Deanna still commanded it. She'd make a good captain.

"Yves."

Something told him the images dancing before him were hallucinations. He didn't care. At least he'd spend his last moments happy. He picked up his son and sang to him.

=======

"We've lost power to deck fourteen. Hull breach," Lieutenant Greenman exclaimed. It was beta shift; she was at tactical. "They're firing at the planet again. Commander--"

"Evasive maneuvers. How many of them are there now?" Troi exclaimed, not taking her eyes from the viewscreen. Two Asili ships darted off either side, leaving a clear starfield.

"Ten." Six more than there had been a mere fourteen minutes before. Another vessel, larger and longer than the others, came into view and reoriented itself, coming straight at them. The view changed as the *Enterprise* turned.

"Evasive maneuvers, sir," the helmsman echoed.

"They're in pursuit. Two more ships coming in --they're trying to surround us."

Stand and fight against incredible odds, or flee. Where was the third option? Deanna knew something was wrong on the planet as well. She'd tried to hail the captain the instant the first two alien vessels appeared, with no response--and then she'd sensed the trickle of pain blossoming. At this distance, the only member of the away team she could distinguish from the population of the planet was Jean-Luc, and something had happened. Trying to contact the Khevil government had proved futile. Either the signals were being jammed, or the Khevil couldn't respond.

The hope of beaming down more people subsided with the knowledge that one interruption of the shields would be fatal. Sending out a shuttle would only mean death for its occupants. The Asili had dropped out of warp in precise formation around the ship, a marvelous feat of navigation, and their first volley had rocked the *Enterprise*. They meant to take the ship; they'd sent a demand for surrender and attempted a tractor lock twice so far.

In the seconds she considered, the red alert beacons winked silently, casting red glares on the panel facings. Greenman announced another two ships arriving. The only time they had been up against such outrageous odds had been the Briar Patch, and this time, there were no interstellar gases to ignite, no clouds to dodge into, no way of playing hide and seek. No other Starfleet vessels to take their side. And now there were more known ramifications to face.

On the panel at her right hand, a two-dimensional grid spattered with white dots moving around the blue Starfleet insignia in the center told her the aliens' net was closing fast.

She had to make a decision.

"Helm. Plot a course for Federation space. Greenman, two quantum torpedoes--target the two largest ships. On my mark, full impulse through the hole we're about to make."

She sensed the bridge crew's surprise at her plan --had they honestly thought there would be a miraculous rescue here? This space had been claimed by the Randra Alliance; the Khevil disputed that, and had contacted the Federation begging for membership. The *Enterprise* had been dispatched to assess the situation. She had the certainty of knowing that the Asili were agents of the Alliance, and that engaging in extended battle with them might result in a war the Federation couldn't afford. Though years had passed, Starfleet still strove to recover from the Dominion War. Estimations of the Alliance's resources made avoidance of war with them a priority.

"Hail the Asili."

"Channel open, sir."

"This is Commander Deanna Troi of the Federation starship *Enterprise*--I request an explanation of this attack. We are guests of the Khevlin."

They waited. Waited. No answer.

"Unidentified vessels, if you do not respond --"

Weapons fire blossomed on the screen, crimson and bloody orange. The shields absorbed most of the impact, but the ship shuddered beneath them. Deanna felt it under her feet and through the captain's chair. She couldn't recognize anything she might be sensing from the mysterious Asili--fear was spreading among the planet's inhabitants. Her own crew's tension registered as well, a persistent throb around her. And there, the needle-sharp pain--Jean-Luc had been unconscious. Now he had awakened.

"Two more ships just appeared on long range sensors," Mendez reported from ops.

"Terminate the channel. Fire." Deanna watched the red flare of incoming fire, the outgoing twin blue-white trails of the torpedoes, felt the bridge tremble beneath her as Greenman reported damage to another section of the hull where the shields were growing weaker with every shot the Asili took. She glanced at the chron. Eighteen minutes. It felt like she'd been at this for hours.

"Rerouting power to aft shields," Mendez announced.

"Direct hit! One ship disabled, shields failing on the other--it's retreating. Sir. . . that was too easy," Greenman said.

"Agreed. Helm--once we're clear of the barricade, hard about, and plot an arc over the other ships. Greenman, multiple targets, maximum spread, phasers at half power."

The lieutenant's fingers moved across the board, and the ship leaped at the hole in the Asili's barricade.

"What are we doing?" Carlisle muttered. He'd been sitting in the first officer's chair since arriving seconds after the red alert sounded.

"Assuming the Khevil are innocents under attack and drawing away the enemy. Bridge to engineering--Geordi, do we have the resources for a Flagg's Wall?" Deanna watched the small screen on her right at one of the secondary stations, where a readout showed the *Enterprise*'s position relative to the galactic core--the ship spun and rolled on two axes while the lieutenant executed her commands.

"Give me ten minutes and we will," Geordi replied after a moment for inventory.

"You have five minutes. Helm, are you familiar with that tactic?"

"Aye, sir," the lieutenant replied eagerly. She couldn't remember his name. It bothered her, but she had no time for irritation.

"Let's put it at the edge of the system. Plot the return course in a wide parabola assuming they'll be in a formation similar to the one they're in now. Put our final destination on the other side of the planet."

"They're breaking off into units of four, in pursuit," Greenman announced. "Our phasers did no damage."

"Keep firing, same intensity, and weaken the shots--we want them to think we're in bad shape, Lieutenant, and no threat to anyone. Any other Asili ships on sensors?"

"No, sir."

"Mendez, determine which area of the shields is damaged most and drop shields in that area." Deanna kept an eye on the arm of her chair, on the chron at the top of the small display there. "Engineering, four minutes and counting. Helm, slow to three quarters impulse. Greenman?"

"They're hanging back at half impulse. Being cautious."

"Begin broadcasting a weak call for help. Make sure it won't leave the system. Has there been any further aggression toward the planet?"

"Several shots fired at one of their major metropolitan areas, but they've broken off the attack. All fourteen ships appear to be on their way to intercept us in formation."

"They could've destroyed us by now," Carlisle said. "Several times over. Are they trying to capture us or do they just want us away from the planet?"

Deanna watched the flock of smaller ships on the view screen. Her sense of Jean-Luc had faded as they drew away from Khevlin, leaving her with only the unease of her crew, the expectant anxiety of the Asili, and the ache of her husband's absence.

"We've reached the edge of the system," the helmsman reported. Khevlin was one of the outer planets; it hadn't taken long to make it past the orbit of the outermost world.

"One quarter impulse. Engineering--any time you're ready, Geordi, and give us a nice showy explosion."

"Venting plasma and beginning countdown."

"Helm, maximum limping range, plot us a long arc."

"Limping and arcing, sir."

She glanced at the readout to her right--the ship was listing to port, turning slowly toward her pursuers in a wide, shallow arc. "Open a channel. This is Commander Troi, of the Federation starship *Enterprise*--we are experiencing system-wide failures and a warp core breach may happen at any time. We are evacuating to emergency pods."

She saw the blink on the ops board over Mendez' arm that meant the next phase had been completed. The maneuver called for peridium particles intermixed with the plasma, a combination that produced a showy explosion when the charges Geordi was planting in the trail they were leaving behind them were ignited. The end result would be an impressive ribbon of fire in space that disrupted most sensors with the resulting radiation levels, and if they timed one final large explosive device and a jettison of various expendable items with a quick jump to warp, the Asili would think they'd been destroyed. Hopefully, they'd believe it long enough for the *Enterprise* to get back to Khevlin, beam up the away team, and get out of the system.

The Asili started to surround the *Enterprise*, and as Mendez reported the ignition of the first of several charges laid on the hull and the ejection of debris, Deanna gave Geordi the go, then gave the order to warp.

The jump to warp didn't happen quite fast enough to avoid the explosion; Greenman reported more damage to lower decks. But they were away, spinning at an acute angle to their last heading, 'down' and 'under' the Khevil system, giving the barricade of Asili a wide berth. They dropped to impulse seconds later and came back toward Khevlin as quickly as they dared.

"Sir, there are more Asili in orbit," Greenman reported. "Six ships."

"Have they detected us yet?"

"Two moving our way."

"Any show of aggression toward the Khevil?"

"No, but they're targeting us."

"Helm, get us out of here, warp eight. Back to Federation space." Deanna sank back into her chair and listened to damage reports interspersed with updates on the Asili. It took a mere fifteen minutes to reach safety; fortunately the warp engines hadn't been damaged. The aliens pursued but didn't catch up, and took up positions within Alliance space, leaving a broad buffer zone between them and the *Enterprise* as if worried about their presence being misunderstood.

"The captain?" Carlisle asked.

"I want an estimate of how long it will take to make repairs--if the Asili do anything, I want to hear about it. I'll be in the ready room."

Once behind closed doors, Deanna sighed and wished desperately that she'd argued harder for Jean-Luc not to spend so much time on the planet's surface. Not that it would have changed anything. Jean-Luc had always insisted that empathy was not to be the deciding factor in anything. She had always agreed. But, this mission had seemed a long shot at the outset. The Khevil were hiding something, and had been from the beginning.

Standing in the middle of the ready room, arms crossed, she stared at the empty chair behind the desk. It took ten minutes to battle her emotions, set aside the aversion to actually sitting in that chair--it was in no way different from prior missions during which she had occasion to sit there, the captain was not dead, he would return--and clear her mind to begin composing a report to Starfleet.

=======

"Hey, Red!"

The lieutenant turned from the refreshment table, the gold braid on his dress uniform catching the light, and raised a bushy auburn eyebrow at her. "Ambassador?"

She snorted and rolled her eyes. "You're here to keep an eye on things, yes? You see the Asili ambassador over there?"

Lieutenant Gimble glanced where she pointed. "Yes, ma'am, I do. Can't miss him."

"Her. The translator's doing a shoddy job of it, but she's closer to female than male, if we can classify her as either. Bela--that's her name--will be going soon. I'm going with her. You're coming along as security. That all right with you, Red?"

"Yes, ma'am," the lieutenant repeated stiffly.

"Something wrong?"

"My name's Frederick, not Red."

Laerta stared at him, conjuring images of D'Tok'Alla and Myers in her head and berating them for having speech impediments and hearing problems. She could have sworn Admiral Myers had called the lieutenant Red. So had D'Tok'Alla. "Sorry, Frederick. Can I call you Fred?"

"Sure, ma'am." He stifled a yawn and put the plate down.

"Not now, in a bit--just keep an eye on me. Go back to your grazing." Laerta crossed the room, brushing between a stand of potted palms, and stopped to smile and solicit the Andorian ambassador's opinion of the event.

Being a Federation ambassador had taken her to rooms full of aliens for the past decade. Usually it was formal duties relating to other Federation members, the head-nodding and smiling between allies, sometimes cozy ones, sometimes uneasy ones. The Klingons still postured a lot, for example. At the other end of the scale, the trip to Betazed had been interesting only because of that Troi woman who was the Federation ambassador to Betazed--Laerta couldn't say she knew much more about Betazed, but at least Troi had livened up an otherwise dull diplomatic function.

This, however, was different. The delegation from the Randra Alliance had arrived in the middle of the Federation Olympics, an event labeled as a trumped-up publicity stunt since its inception two hundred years before but which continued in the name of tradition and in the hope that the label would go away. Naysayers considered it divisive, having peoples from varying species compete with one another, but the human concept of healthy competition was shared by enough species that the games went on every four years, roughly following the schedule set by the pre-twenty-second century Olympics of Earth.

The Randra delegation had arrived without notifying Starfleet directly and expressed an interest in viewing the games. The games were taking place this time on the colony world of Deneva. So Laerta, being the senior member of the diplomatic corps present at the games, was by default the one in charge--until someone upstairs sent out a delegation from HQ, which no doubt they would once her report trickled through channels. The question of how the delegation had known about the Olympics at all was probably moot; general newscasts traveled along open channels. Aliens who didn't know 'proper diplomatic procedure' weren't surprising.

But the Randra Alliance. . . . This could be a career-making encounter for her. Diplomatic corps scuttlebutt said that the Alliance had turned away diplomatic overtures for the better part of two years and the Big Guys at Starfleet HQ were worried witless.

Here, on the second night of the delegation's visit and in the large reception area of the Full Regalia Hotel, she was in charge. The handful of aliens no one had ever seen before were her guests. An odd assortment they were--the nine-foot Asili dominated the troop, with her two-foot quills and her rippling greenish-brown pelt. Asili were humanoid, vaguely ursine in the face with that short muzzle full of sharp teeth and the dark eyes set beneath prominent brow bones. Longer, darker hair grew in patches down her torso, thicker in lower regions; the thighs were covered in long tresses that Laerta only wished she had growing from her head, only without the greenish tint.

The other three aliens said little. Laerta had the impression they were aides. Two--both of a short, pale, hairless humanoid species -- seemed nervous, though she knew better than to interpret new species from a human perspective. The third might have been an offshoot of the Asili species, a four-foot furry fellow the color of black coffee--a mini-bear, a sometimes-four-footed creature with bright amber eyes that darted about warily.

Laerta left the Andorian ambassador and almost bumped into the mini-bear--Chechik, she reminded herself. Species Chechik, name Bisfa. That was as close as she could get to saying it, anyway. The little guy had materialized from the shadows of the swaying draperies around the open balcony doors.

"Are you enjoying the party, Bisfa?" she asked, shifting into her best ambassadorial warm-safe-happy voice.

"Bela wishes to depart."

Laerta looked out over the waters of the artificial lake. At night, the hotel turned on red and green lights around its perimeter, and in the center a fountain created a festival of light and color and a soothing constant rush of water. She had hoped for a few moments of peace on the balcony before facing another barrage of questions from Bela. The walk to the Asili's rooms would be that way, if history repeated itself.

"Of course." Laerta gestured at Red-Fred-Frederick, who put down his plate, wiped his lips with a napkin, and went to stand at attention by the door at the far end of the room. Good man. She'd ask him to stay in the hall outside the Randra delegation's room tonight. Unobtrusive security officers were worth their weight in gold.

Laerta glanced down at her conservative forest-green pantsuit and kept up the polite smile as she wove through the knots of guests, various ambassadorial representatives from Federation member worlds and their entourages, to where the Asili waited with the pale hairless aliens who never left Bela's side.

In the hall, the first question asked, from drawn-back lips to translator to Laerta's ears, was "Are Federation parties all so long and uneventful?"

Laerta almost told the truth--only the diplomatic ones. "No, Bela. They are not."

Bela marched from the short hall into the lobby proper. She paused, studying the fountain again as if not believing it was still there, and didn't seem to notice the stares of onlookers drifting around them. She snorted. "What function does a party serve?"

"Social interaction is important to many species. A party is focused on fostering social interaction."

"To what purpose?"

This would be a long night.

=======

deLio surveyed the rubble-strewn blast site. "Lieutenant?"

"Reading four life signs." The tricorder blipped and whirred. McGinnis moved forward a moment later.

"One human. Three Khevil."

"How long since the attack?"

"Half an hour." McGinnis holstered the tricorder and climbed over rubble. deLio joined her, and together they began heaving chunks of wall and other debris aside, searching for the survivors.

deLio heard the approach, but waited until the footsteps were close to turn around. The Khevlin D'ria, Mal, had come out to survey the scene in person. Surprising.

Mal's pendulous nostril flaps quivered as she turned her four brilliant faceted yellow eyes to look at him. "Lieutenant-Commander deLio. Here to assist."

"Thank you, D'ria. But it is too dangerous. You should go, and send others."

Her high-crested forehead tipped flat as she raised her head. The pale gray skin stretched across her elongated skull glistened, perhaps perspiration, perhaps some other biological event he didn't understand. The slitted nostrils flared wide enough that deLio could see the ribbed greenish interior of her nose.

"Brave enough to come here," she said, gesturing at deLio and McGinnis, then at the sky. "Your ship brave enough to attempt leading the Asili from us. Brave enough to assist." She patted her narrow, flat chest. With waves of her triple-jointed fingers, she set her security to helping them lift and move pieces of rubble.

"Our ship?"

"Monitoring the ships in orbit. *Enterprise* led the Asili fleet away, but more Asili came. *Enterprise* came back from sunward, forced away again."

deLio considered questioning further, but McGinnis darted forward, following a reading on her tricorder and reminding him of the urgency of their errand. He hurried to help her pull at broken masonry.

=======

"I am the Captain of the Pinafore, and a right good captain, too! You're very, very good, and be it understood, I command a right good crew!"

Why was it so dark? Why did his chest hurt so much?

Beverly, in the full petticoats and yellow dress of Buttercup, crossed the stage toward him--No, he hadn't been in that production. He didn't sing. She'd convinced Data to be the captain of the Pinafore, for that production.

"Though related to a peer, I can hand, reef, and steer, And ship a. . . ship. . . never known to quail at the fury of a gale. . . never, never sick at sea!"

Why hadn't he tried out for the play? Absolutely nothing wrong with his voice, it was the acoustics in here that were bad. And the pressure on his ribs was unbearable; he was unable to sing more than a line or so before gasping for air.

"What, never? No, never! What. . . Hardly ever! He's hardly ever sick at sea! Then give three cheers, and one cheer more, for the hardy Captain of the Pinafore!" Beverly would be so surprised that he'd tried out for the part.

"Computer, lights! Dammit, why's it so dark? Pinafore--Picard to--Geordi? Engineering! Turn on the lights!"

He continued singing, laughing at himself. Coughing when the dirt fell in his face and the light blinded him. The pressure across his chest eased and a blast of cold air struck his face--why was his face wet? Why did his forehead sting?

His eyes adjusted slowly. A face hovered like a balloon overhead. Wrong kind of face. Pale green eyes, wiggling cheeks, long earlobes -- ridiculous face. Like someone got too close to a fire and melted.

"Captain."

"Yes, what, you're--" He couldn't speak, suddenly. Pain arrowed up his spine and into his skull.

When he could breath again, when his eyes fluttered open, he realized he'd been tied to something. Trying to turn his head told him it, too, had been immobilized. His arms were held tightly by a number of bonds, wrapped across his chest, and the same for his legs. And the pain now sat on his chest like an anvil.

"No! Help me. . . ."

"Captain." The melted person was back. "An explosion brought most of the structure down on top of you and a dozen others. We were lucky you weren't killed, as most of the others were."

The face changed, fracturing like splintered glass. The bright white-yellow sunlight--the dust he could taste--he'd been climbing, hadn't he? Robert had dared him to do it, and he'd fallen, and now Papa was angry. A large branch broken out of one of Maman's favorite trees. Now he'd never be allowed out of the house, and he had a date with that dark-eyed girl --

That wasn't right. The dark-eyed girl was on a ship.

No, Beverly was on the ship. His ship. The *Stargazer.

No. That was wrong. Everything was wrong.

"De--"

"Please don't speak, sir." Female voice. But wrong one. Something wet touched his face. He flinched.

"De," he gasped. "Dee. . . ."

He fell into a cavern, and the stars winked around him. Birds flew. Large, white with black beaks. Swans. Beverly tap-danced across the gleaming floor, laughing, flinging a top hat. Jack caught it and laughed with her, putting on the hat.

"It's a rough time, Johnny, but we'll get through it. We'll get through, and get home."

A swish of skirts, on the periphery of his vision. He turned but whoever it was had disappeared into the trees, the dense foliage making the spaces between the trunks look dark as night. He went after the woman, running until his legs hurt and his lungs burned, and caught glimpses of her pale dress floating along through the forest ahead, dodging and racing through leaves --

Swans burst from a thicket --

That was wrong. Swans didn't live in thickets. His legs hurt, he stumbled, and the grass felt cold and wet.

No, wait, he'd fallen from a horse, hadn't he?

He opened his eyes. The dark-eyed girl held his head in her lap, and smiled.

"Cygne."

She wouldn't speak. Her fingertips tickled his cheek, traced his nose, his lips. She leaned, and he felt her hand sink into his chest, wrap around his heart, and squeeze.

"Breathe--can't--"

She wept, her tears sliding down her face, dripping off her nose and chin, but she wouldn't stop squeezing. Those tears fell toward his face as if reaching for it, viscous and slow, and as they stretched ever downward he realized she cried blood.

=======

T minus 10 days, 2 hours

Deanna woke to the tug of small fingers on her sleeve. She'd fallen asleep fully clothed, on top of the covers.

"Mama?"

Her son's tired summons finished the process of waking her. "What?"

"Where's Papa?"

"He had to go somewhere, Yves. Come here." She tugged the back of his pajamas as he climbed up next to her. He'd been in bed already when she finally came home and dismissed the sitter. He'd dressed himself for bed; the pants hadn't been fastened and were on backwards. She fastened them without turning them around and let him fall asleep within the curve of her arm.

Oh, for the obliviousness of a three-year-old. He snuggled up to her in the dark, his breath hot on her neck, and she grinned at the smell of grapes. His favorite drink was grape juice, and the sitter must have neglected cleaning his teeth before bed. He'd brought Mr. Tiggles with him. The toy made a largish solid bump between them and one of the targ's stuffed tusks prodded her left breast.

While Yves twitched in his dreams, she thought about her own, from which her son had awakened her. Blurred visions of flying birds, a forest, and darkness. She suspected she knew where the imagery came from; with the muted pain and faint images came a pervasive sense of fear, pain and confusion--these had to be Jean-Luc's, somehow perceptible over the distance between them only when she slept.

She rose to respond to the call of the bladder. As she stepped into the bathroom, she saw the blossom near the sink. The size of a fist, with hundreds of petals like tiny apricot scoops. She picked it up by the small clear capsule enveloping the stem, the liquid inside running to the bottom. The fragrance, understated and sweet, brought tears to her eyes. Jean-Luc had to have left the flower that afternoon before beaming down. She held the flower to her nose and suddenly remembered something she'd forgotten.

Six years old and looking for her mother, she'd found Lwaxana in her bathroom, holding a hairbrush. The contents of a drawer spread across the counter in front of her. As a child Deanna hadn't known what the hairbrush meant. It wasn't one she recognized. All she knew was that her mother seemed lost, tears oozing down her face, and it was frightening. The following week they had moved. It took Deanna years and a cousin's casual comment to understand that her mother had been moving away from memories, and that the hairbrush had been her father's.

Deanna blinked away tears and stared at the array of personal items around the mirror and sink. She did what she came to do and left. She considered changing into a night shirt, but she could be called to the bridge at any time. There didn't seem to be any air left in the bedroom. She moved around seeking but not finding. The vacuum of space had moved inside and replaced her lungs.

With a book pulled from the collection on the shelves, she went into the main room to avoid waking Yves, turned on a single lamp at the end of the couch, and opened the pages at random. She attempted involving herself in the poetry she found there, just for the sake of distraction. She found herself looking into the middle of the large collection of British poets, at the section on Browning.

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand

Henceforth in thy shadow. Nevermore

Alone upon the threshold of my door

Of individual life, I shall command

The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand

Serenely in the sunshine as before,

Without the sense of that which I forbore--

Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land

Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine

With pulses that beat double. What I do

And what I dream include thee, as the wine

Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue

God for myself, He hears that name of thine,

And sees within my eyes the tears of two.

She slammed the book shut. Running her hands down the rough brown cover, blindly tracing the embossed title 'Classic Poetry,' she blinked away tears, then forced herself to find the page again. After re-reading it, she flipped through to another section. And another. The fifteenth poem she read struck a chord. It would make a good one for meditation. She repeated it to herself until she knew the short verses, then set aside the book.

"Mama?" the sleepy call came at last. She returned to the bedroom and took off her boots before rejoining Yves. In the dark she dropped the blossom she still held, hoping it landed on the bedside table, and felt her way to her son. Kissing his hair, she let him snuggle close again and murmured the poem over and over, lulling both of them to sleep.

"Peace flows into me

As the tide to the pool by the shore;

It is mine forevermore,

It ebbs not back like the sea.

I am the pool of blue

That worships the vivid sky;

My hopes were heaven-high,

They are all fulfilled in you.

I am the pool of gold

When sunset burns and dies, --

You are my deepening skies,

Give me your stars to hold.

Peace flows into me. . . ."

=======

  
T minus 9 days, 4 hours

McGinnis shook her head. The lieutenant's posture and facial expression as she sat with the captain told deLio that the situation remained the same.

They could not stay there. The *Enterprise* hadn't returned; the D'ria's blunt assessment of the Asili boded ill. The starship would make a great prize for the pirates, if they could disable it without serious damage, and there were systems outside the Randra Alliance far beyond the scope of Federation influence where spirited Starfleet officers could be sold for the amusement of societies with less altruistic views of alien cultures. The D'ria hypothesized that either the Asili wanted the *Enterprise* for that reason, or they were in the employ of the Alliance to disrupt Federation negotiations.

deLio studied the captain's face. Picard's condition concerned him greatly for two reasons. The longer they remained among the Khevil, who couldn't work quickly enough to understand how to treat a human, the more danger he was in. Commander Troi, like most of the crew, would want to find the away team simply out of loyalty to him. The captain had said this was a touchy situation and that avoiding violence was paramount, no matter what happened. deLio couldn't predict what the commander would do, but he hoped if she attempted rescue, it would be soon. Any significant delay would make it a futile gesture.

She would be working hard to make a rescue attempt. It was a family matter for her, as well as loyalty to her captain. deLio had made the decision to attempt having a family of his own while in the service of Starfleet because he had seen how the captain and the commander managed. L'norim did everything by consensus; it had been accepted that serving in Starfleet would best be left to the young and unattached. deLio had accepted that life among aliens was not suitable for a L'norim family, until he had been assigned to the *Enterprise*. The captain had changed his mind, and as a result, he had set in motion a process of appeals, which had ended promisingly. If this mission ended well, deLio might have a family and his Starfleet career, too.

deLio remembered the images he had been sent, of zeRhia and seKahl. He had met seKahl before, long ago, while in school. Seeing his response to deLio's announcement of intent had been a pleasant surprise. Since seKahl had joined Starfleet as well, it should be no great difficulty for him to adjust to life aboard the *Enterprise*. deVin was also a Starfleet officer, stationed on a starbase. Their transfers were still pending. zeRhia would have the most difficult transition to make. Life on L'noriss was nothing like the multi-cultural existence of a Starfleet officer and a *ghif* would be less tolerant of change than the other three genders; their tendency to respond to everything instinctually made them ill-suited to life as an officer. Still, deLio had high hopes that he and the other two would be able to help zeRhia adapt and thus prove that L'norim could function as a familial unit abroad in the Federation, allowing Starfleet officers to continue their careers rather than retiring to build their family.

The captain moaned, distracting deLio from his musing. McGinnis almost jumped to her feet from where she sat on the floor against a wall, subsiding when Picard quieted. The captain's ramblings disturbed the lieutenant greatly, though she couldn't seem to tell deLio exactly why. It was perfectly natural for the man to think of his wife and want to see her, he thought, drawing on his years of association with humans to make this conclusion.

deLio turned from the bed, looking out the shuttered window at the cityscape below. The hospital was set into the side of a hill. He could see the two rubble-strewn points of impact. The charges were precisely aimed, the D'ria had said, as if they knew exactly what to target to accomplish their objective -- the first charge had destroyed the main communications tower in the area, as well as a node of the Khevlin power grid. The second had landed squarely on the building in which the captain had been on a tour. He and McGinnis had been skirting the perimeter and studying all approaches to the building, on the basis of the D'ria's suggestion that visitors from Alliance worlds might be terrorists sent to do harm. What limited interplanetary traffic there was between Khevil and the rest of the Alliance usually stayed in a city to the south of the capital, but there had been more alien visitors traveling north than usual. Or so the D'ria claimed.

It seemed that the Asili did indeed wish to put an end to negotiations with the Khevil, and badly enough to use force. They had probably been told they could take the Enterprise as a reward. What little Starfleet had managed to learn about the species that made up the majority of the Randra Alliance's battle fleet indicated that captured ships often ended up as part of their fleet. Of the personnel, there were only rumors of slavery and experimentation. To deLio's knowledge, no Starfleet vessels had been captured yet, but if the rumors were true. . . .

A flicker of movement in the sky raised his hopes, only to destroy them when it descended into plain sight. The small shuttle wasn't Federation. deLio watched it circle and disappear behind buildings, a cloud of dust rising in its wake a moment later.

"The Khevil do not have a landing field or space port of any kind."

"Sir?" McGinnis rose and came to stand with him, peering through the shutters.

"In the D'ria's tour of the city yesterday. While we were riding the transport with her. Did she not say there were no facilities for space vessels in this city?"

McGinnis frowned. "Yes, she said that. Why?"

deLio watched the skyline. "Exceptions are apparently made."

=======

  
"I know our mythic history--King Arthur's and Sir. . . ."

"Captain, you should rest."

Damned woman. She kept interrupting. He wished he knew her name so he could order her away. "I answer hard acrostics, I've a pretty taste for paradox; I quote in ele. . . el. . . all the crimes of Helio. . . In conics I can floor pecrulities para. . . parabol. . . what the hell's long with my tongue?"

Again, the woman. He couldn't see her well, but she hovered off to the left like a ghost. "You're in a Khevil hospital. The doctors are having difficulties--they've never had to deal with a non-Khevil physiology here. I think. . . sir, I think you may have some brain damage."

"Nonsense!" He kept singing--this time, Beverly wouldn't look at him like she was joking when she suggested he try out for a play. This time he'd accept and shock her by actually knowing all the lyrics. And singing them on key. More practice. "I tell undoubted Raff. . . els from Gerard 'ows and Zof'nies, I know. . . chorus from the 'Frogs' of Aris--Alistophanes--"

"Sir. Please be quiet. You need rest."

"Why is it dark? Turn on the lights!"

"Sir--"

"Deanna! Where the hell has she got to? Go get her--she's got to make the pain go away, damn this pain," he cried, feeling her tears on his face again--she had to be nearby if he could feel her tears. His chest ached hollow and it took all he had to inhale. "Bloody tears, stop crying, dammit and get back here! Get back here! Dee!"

"What's wrong?"

"He seems to be in pain."

The play's the thing. The play's the thing. "Then I can hum a fugue, of which I've heard the music's din afore, and whistle all the airs from that confounded nonsense 'Pinafore'. . . ."

"What is that he's singing?"

"It's a play. A theatrical fiction? We perform them, acting out parts--drama? One of his friends on the ship has been casting one, a very old form called a musical that involves singing of parts. He seems to be practicing. Doctor, is there any way we could sedate him?"

"I still have no confidence in my ability to prescribe for his physiology. I'm running more tests, but I don't want to try something and risk killing him. If it's any consolation, he doesn't feel anything from the shoulders down."

But he could feel his toes, his feet--what was this nonsense? The pain was in his chest, she still had his heart in her hand. That was supposed to happen. Good pain, in a way. At least it told him something. . . what, he couldn't guess, but somehow he knew that if it weren't there, that would be a bad thing, and that it could be much worse than it was.

The throbbing began anew. It was as if ropes had been tied to his ribs and he was being pulled into orbit a centimeter at a time. He tried to move his arm. His head shifted with it --

Stars, everywhere, going supernova. Flares of warp engines, glowing blue, and there went a shuttle, and there went a comet with a brilliant white tail --

No, that was the neck of a bird. She flew, her graceful wings pumping evenly, flying away from him. Across the Milky Way beyond his reach. The ropes were gripping tightly in her beak. The hand on his heart squeezed --

Now she was screaming. He definitely heard her screaming. He had to go to her, someone was hurting her --

Swans don't scream. They don't make noise until the swan song. Until they die.

Who was screaming?

  
=======

Laerta glanced over her shoulder. Mike Callaias, the security detail for the day, had opened the door to let in a woman carrying a tray of carefully-chosen food items. Hannah, a member of the Terran ambassadorial entourage, placed the tray on a stand in one corner of the private box. Laerta nodded and smiled dismissal. Hannah took the hint.

The aliens were all watching the stadium floor, without using the viewscreen--they were looking through the transparent aluminum windows at the track as the Vulcan runner outpaced the Terran and Denevan runners, then made slow progress in catching up with the Telwrithian runner, who had held a solid lead for four laps now. Too bad the Klingon runner had already disqualified himself by pitching the Risan entry into the stands for getting in the way.

Laerta decided not to distract her charges for the sake of announcing the presence of the food. Bela's lips twitched; so did her right leg, and one finger uncurled and slowly relaxed again. The movements reminded Laerta of her mother's cat. Bela reminded her of something that one would find in a wilderness preserve, in fact.

Rising quietly, Laerta went up the steps and opened the door to lean out. "Mr. Callaias?"

"Ma'am?" The burly blond responded without turning from his stare at a handful of people lingering at the top of a stairwell twenty paces away.

"I left a message this morning for Lieutenant Frederick Gimble. He still hasn't returned my call."

Callaias turned a dark-eyed, diffident smirk on her. "Ma'am, if you want to complain our supervisor is--"

"Yes, I know. I just wanted to ask if you knew him. He didn't seem the sort of person who would ignore someone like that. Especially someone who offered him a free pass to a series of ambassadorial receptions and dinners." The food was often a perk for security detail in such situations. And she'd spoken with him at length the previous evening after seeing the aliens to their rooms, and not entirely about business. Frederick had seemed interested in more than the food, and he seemed a nice enough guy.

Mike shrugged, his bulging shoulders straining at the sleeve seams of his uniform. "Dunno. Fred's a good guy, good officer. If he went off duty late, maybe he's been sleeping."

"Yeah, maybe. Thanks anyway." Laerta closed the door and returned to her seat. Bela had turned to look at her.

"What is that one?" A fat furry finger pointed at the field.

"The one in the lead? He's Vulcan. Like the ones we met after the pole vault." The friendly smile came easily, the much-practiced one she had cultivated for so long. "You might like the Vulcans. We didn't spend much time talking to them, I know, but--"

"I do not like them." Bela's muzzle contorted.

Laerta tried not to anthropomorphize that expression into distaste. "I'm sorry?"

"They do not smell well."

This was one of those occasions on which Laerta was certain the translator somehow failed her. She fell back on changing the subject. "I have some food here, if you would like some."

The pale twin aliens ate the items from the vegetable platter without showing much reaction either way. Bifsa snorted, dropped a carrot, and took something from the plate of replicated meat items. That met with approval, as a moment later he took seconds. Bela showed no confusion; she ate only from the meat items, sometimes setting aside an item after a single taste, other times eating something in three bites. Within ten minutes the tray was bare of everything but discarded items.

"What are those?" Bela pointed with a denuded pork rib.

After some back and forth to isolate the Asili's point of curiosity, Laerta said, "Those are children. Most of the people here are human, and those are their young ones." The restatement was for the translator's benefit.

"Children."

"Do you have any children?"

Bela's quills quivered upright, then settled. "I have. Do you have hechi?"

"I don't have any offspring." Laerta didn't expect the sudden intense gaze of the Asili delegate. "I'm sorry, did I say something to offend?"

"Your kind have children. But you do not have children. Clarify."

"I haven't chosen to have children. I personally would want to have a husband. A mate. Someone to help me raise the children. And I don't have one yet."

Bela's left nostril twitched, from a slit to a wider one. "You are too young?"

"No--I'm not young, by our reckoning. I have not chosen to take a mate yet. We don't have to mate. It's a choice we can make. Is it different for the Asili?"

Bela's regard became less intense. "We have choices." She turned back to watch the ten-k race still in progress.

Laerta did so as well. She contemplated turning the speaker on again to hear what the commentator was saying, but watched the runners in silence. This was not the first time she had run into aliens who were slow to give up information on themselves; perhaps the Asili was being cautious, or perhaps there was something lacking in the translations.

Either way, she was starting to feel relief at the thought of a team of first contact specialists showing up to take over. She was used to being second string, followup diplomacy was her comfort zone, and the burden of being caught up in something as important as first contact with a delegation from the Randra Alliance began to sink in as something she didn't want the responsibility for--the more she thought about the ramifications of this in relation to Federation-Alliance politics, the less she wanted to spend time with Bela, especially since the Asili made her feel like prey. Bela often stared at her like a cat stalking a bug, and nothing Laerta could tell herself about the dangers of assuming anything about new species made a difference in how she felt about it.

=======

At one point, she'd been prepared to give up a career to raise a child.

Deanna rode the lift to the bridge and suffered through the deja vu--her first pregnancy, their first child, had ended in miscarriage, but not before she had the opportunity to think of leaving Starfleet. Jean-Luc had been missing. She hadn't known if he would return or if she would be a single parent. She had set a limit, decided that she would go to Earth if he didn't return within a set number of weeks, and raise the child as a Picard.

Nearly five years later and here she was again, one child walking and talking and another gestating, only no contemplation of leaving Starfleet. How things changed over time.

She dropped her hand from her abdomen and strode out on the bridge. "Mr. Carlisle?"

"No contact with the Asili, no movement of their ships." Ward rose to face her as she came down to him. "Repairs are within an hour of completion. The hull fractures are repaired as well as we can manage without a starbase. That first strike out of nowhere did a lot of damage. At least they were only fractures. Ablative armor's a different story. We estimate full shields in half an hour."

"Good. And the senior officers?"

"Will all be at the meeting in an hour. There's a message for you from Command, your eyes only. I routed it to the ready room."

"Thank you."

She took a moment after sitting down at the desk in the ready room to collect her thoughts and reorient herself on being the officer. This wouldn't be difficult. The message was a response to the one she'd sent, updating Command on what was going on. It'd taken sixteen hours to get a reply.

Admiral Farok appeared on the screen. "Commander," he said solemnly. "I am sorry to hear of the captain's situation. You are aware, of course, that this mission may very well set the tone of all future negotiations with the Alliance--since you received orders, we have welcomed a diplomatic entourage from the Alliance and talks are under way. One of the ambassadors is Asili. I can only reiterate that the *Enterprise* is in a very sensitive situation, and violence must be avoided. Make every attempt to retrieve the away team, by all means, but do not resort to threats or battle."

"How am I supposed to do anything peacefully with an entire fleet of ships firing weapons at me?" she blurted at the Vulcan on the small screen. She missed a portion of what he said as a result but suspected it didn't matter.

"--Picard is a valuable officer and we would be grieved to lose him, but I am certain that he understands the gravity of the situation. I am confident that you will handle this matter with great care to keep the peace. Farok, out."

"Yes, I will," she snapped as the screen reverted to the UFP emblem. Frowning, she plexed until her anger abated. She hadn't expected anything useful, and she hadn't been disappointed. Rising, she straightened her uniform. Careful not to look at the framed picture of their family that Jean-Luc kept on the corner of his desk, she left the ready room.

The eyes of the bridge crew settled on her. She sensed hope and anticipation, and the plummeting of both as she marched up to the lift without saying a word. They had probably expected orders to go after the away team.

The lift opened on the deck she'd specified some time later. She strode down the corridor, dodging an ensign without seeing his face, and entered astrometrics. The lieutenant bent over one of the consoles straightened.

"I would like to see a replay," she announced.

"Yes, sir." The lieutenant keyed in the instructions; Deanna sensed the prickle of his annoyance at the request. She didn't have to elaborate on what she meant, as she'd already viewed the computer's re-creation of the encounter with the Asili.

As the room darkened to stars in space and images of ships in flight, she focused on them, and on the sensations she had experienced, falling into a light trance to sharpen her memory and recall what she hadn't had time to note consciously. This time, she remembered more than before.

"Again," she said distantly as the simulation ended, not even sensing the lieutenant's irritation this time.

=======

deLio disliked the translator's renderings of Khevlin. The rest of the away team seemed to have no trouble, but it may have been that Khevlin to Standard was an easier transition than Khevlin to L'nor'issk. Whatever the reason, he didn't trust the translations, and he didn't like the look of the small ship to which the D'ria had led him. It looked like a practical joke thrown together by cadets using old torpedo casings for engines, warped hull plating scored by plasma blasts, and a scrawl of black paint down the side. A surreptitious tricorder reading told him there was a crew of ten humanoids, but not what kind. This had to be the ship he'd seen.

"Where will this take us?"

"Merchants," the D'ria said, fingers fluttering. "K'korll are best. K'korll unallied, as are the Khevil, but further from here and hope can find transport from K'korll to Federation space."

deLio had never heard of the K'korll. "I would like to know more about--"

"No time. Asili are arriving, asking questions. Want to know where Federation people are. If any are on Khevlin." The D'ria turned as four of her fellow Khevil brought the unconscious captain from the transport, still secured on the stretcher. McGinnis followed with an anxious look on her face.

"Have paid them well," the D'ria said. "The K'korll will help you. Apologies that our medical could not assist. Mouthless will be able to heal. Take, for the healer." She pressed a pale green disk into deLio's hand.

A hatch on the side of the merchant vessel opened. The aliens that emerged were different, black shining spindly humanoids with ratted short hair and gleaming eyes. They were mouthless, as the D'ria described. These must be K'korll. One of them came out to accept another disk from the D'ria. The captain was carried on board; it seemed that their departure wasn't negotiable. deLio followed McGinnis after their commanding officer.

They were left alone in a tiny room with the captain and no furniture. Ten minutes after the door closed them in, the floor shuddered and the muted roar of takeoff ensued.

"Sir?" McGinnis knelt and tucked a loose corner of the blanket around the captain. "Do you trust this?"

"It would appear we have no choice," deLio said. "How is he?"

"The same. Do you think Commander Troi will come back for him? Wouldn't she? How will she find us? If she sensed he was injured -- "

"I could not tell you if she senses anything or not. I do know that she will follow orders, and that she will place the protection of the Federation over her own welfare, as would the captain. She would leave us to our fates if it were the only way to avoid war." He looked down at the captain, wrapped in the mottled-brown blanket, flushed and still tied down tightly with strips of cloth. "However, I do believe she will do all she can to find us."

McGinnis frowned. "Where are we going? What if we never get back?"

"Stay with Captain Picard. I wish to find the captain of this vessel." deLio left her there, though as he stepped out of the room he felt a vague discomfort about doing so. Unable to identify the source of his irritation, he shook it off and went in search of the crew.

=======

T minus 8 days, 3 hours

She was crying again. His face wet again. The dark-eyed girl was back and not making a sound.

"Damn you! Stop it! Stop crying, stop, stop. . . ."

Why didn't any of it make sense? It should make sense. The darkness and the difficulty breathing were much worse--was he dead? Was this just a massive hallucination? Was this a coma he'd fallen into? A dream?

He could no longer find his body--he was left floating --

He could fly. Fly home, fly away, out of darkness.

Swans, flying into the stars. "Wait! Come back!"

They swooped, turned, and flew at him, wings thrashing, narrowing, thin yellow beaks open and jabbing --

Gulls. Not swans.

Laughter, familiar, smug, evil. *You're singing again, human. More songs from your childhood?

Not a gull. Not a bird. Cold reptilian hands. A gul.

"FOUR! THERE ARE FOUR!"

Five lights shine on hurting eyes. Blurry. Lights.

"FOUR!"

The ache choked him again. Where was that dark-eyed girl when he needed her? It didn't hurt this much when she was there, even if she cried.

"Make them stop," he begged, wondering why his face was still wet even though the girl wasn't there, "make them leave me alone. . . ."

The gulls tore at a battered body on the surf. One pulled off an arm and looked at him, the limp hand flopping out the side of its beak.

Stars. Darkness.

The rush of wings.

The gulls, screaming and fleeing, as a swan drove into the heart of the melee, beating them off.

He'd almost forgotten how, but at the soft brush of feathers on his face as she enfolded him within a protective wing, his heart spoke. {Don't leave me.}

She didn't reply, but around him warmth and softness, like a blanket. Comfort. Feather tips dried his face--it felt like butterfly wings, or her lips against his skin. Black eyes, from which came a slow rain of tears, but clear, tasting of the salt of distant oceans. Black eyes, mirrors of his face. A weak smile.

{Cygne.}

=======

  
McGinnis straightened quickly as deLio entered the room. He noted her hands on the captain's shoulders and the change in Picard's position -- before, he'd been straight on the board, but now he seemed slightly askew, even in spite of the bonds.

"He was thrashing," McGinnis said. "He almost seemed to awaken for a moment but he went under again just as suddenly. Sir, I hope that healer can help him. It's been three days."

"I am told we will arrive shortly. The captain will take us to the healing places. Evidently the D'ria paid him very well indeed."

"We should try to get more of this soup down him." McGinnis reached for the cup sitting on the floor at her feet. "I wish we had access to our own sickbay."

"Saying that often will not make it so." deLio watched her tip careful mouthfuls of soup into the captain's mouth. She didn't meet deLio's eyes--she had been doing so less often, and had taken to starting when he entered the room. The lieutenant was nervous, and though that could be a normal human reaction to a dire situation, deLio couldn't help thinking otherwise.

=======

Deanna knew when her meditation went out of her control, but let it happen. The pull could only come from one source. Something had terrified him. He needed her. Briefly she remembered the ship, the crew, and his expectations. The pull might not happen again, however, and who knew what end this would have? Not knowing what it meant, she responded with the sensation of a hand-clasp.

It was the beach they'd walked on, once upon a holodeck, and he lay naked on the sand. Immense sea gulls were fighting and pulling at him. She ran at them and they flew away.

{Don't leave me.} The weak response from him didn't do much to reassure, but she took what comfort she could. Everything else was chaos. Beyond this sand bar and the dark, silent ocean at her back, there was nothing. This was the landscape of his mind. Images from his subconscious. She could analyze it but that would be of no use to them at the moment. Instead she knelt at his side and touched his face, ignoring the manifestation of blood and torn flesh.

{Cygne.}

She laid her body over his, kissing his face. The pain--all around, not sharp, but everywhere and resonating. He'd lost almost all consciousness. This place she'd come to lay deep within him. Whatever had happened, the damage must have been to parts of his brain that controlled or interpreted sensory input. She'd sensed this ambient mental pain before in people who had lost sight or hearing. It wasn't unlike the altered state her own mother had been in once, which could mean this was some form of coma.

She stayed with him. The gulls didn't reappear. She didn't notice when the surroundings changed, or when his body no longer had the appearance of cuts and bleeding--it registered at last when one of his arms went around her. They lay in a white bed, the familiarity of which she gave no consideration, and he was still and pale. His eyes never opened. Probably a reflection of reality.

It seemed, after long hours and days of drifting with him and stroking his face, that the bed began to float. It bobbed gently and turned into a current of some sort. Stars glittered coldly around them.

Something was happening. She sensed an unfamiliar presence. Sitting up, she shook Jean-Luc's shoulders and tried to see where they were going. Whatever went on that caused these changes, she wasn't privy to it. He didn't respond to anything she did.

Another pulling. The presence seemed to be trying to separate them.

She grabbed his hands, felt him slipping away from her, experienced a flying, falling, twisting sensation, and the sear of air sucked in too swiftly--and fire blossomed in her chest.

Dully, she heard anxious voices. Sickbay. Her head throbbed and her heart raced. She curled into a fetal position and ignored Dr. Selar's questions. The ship needed her, the crew needed her, her baby needed her, but for now she didn't care. She needed her husband and he was gone, gone, the emptiness surrounding her, adrift in an ocean of misery.

=======

Laerta tossed and turned. She'd been in hundreds of hotel rooms and guest rooms, and she still couldn't sleep well in them. This one, for all the Regalia's finery, had an impossibly-stiff mattress and from somewhere came a soft clicking noise, the source of which she had yet to locate. She suspected the stasis unit in the corner, in which she kept her supply of peach-laced Altair water.

She threw off the heavy covers. Her toes ran into a chair leg in the dark, but she refused to order up the lights just to cross to the window. Pulling aside the curtain, she watched the fountain in the artificial lake, but her eyes strayed to the windows she knew belonged to the Asili and her entourage. Top floor, in the side of the quadrangle to the left of where she was housed. All the windows were dark.

She left her room on a whim and walked through the interminable burgundy-and-gold gaudiness of the Regalia's halls. Since the explosion and evacuation of the hotel on Rigel that one conference she'd attended five years ago, she wore comfortable but presentable clothes to bed, just in case she might end up shivering in a courtyard watching her hotel come down in pieces for one reason or another. No one looked twice at her--not the yawning hall-walkers, the guests coming in from late parties, or the Andorian relay team veering to and fro in a group stagger toward their rooms. Probably too much Aldeberan whisky.

She reached the hall outside the Asili delegation's room and found that her solid, dependable security officer had gone. He was supposed to call for a relief if he took a break, not leave the hall empty. So much for reliable security at the Olympic games. Forget the supervisor, first thing in the morning, she was going straight to the admirals. It just didn't look good to promise security and not provide it, even though it was only out of courtesy and the Asili looked like she could take care of herself.

Laerta wandered back to her room, wondering again what had happened to Red-Fred, the pleasant officer who had promised to be there again if she needed him. Tonight's guard had suggested reassignment as a possible cause of Fred's absence. The Olympics did require some security, and even though the Starfleet base on Deneva had brought in a couple hundred extras, more people had showed up than expected. That seemed a likely explanation. She'd also been careful not to over-stress the importance of the delegation; that might draw attention from journalists, something she preferred to avoid if she could.

The supervisor, then the admirals. And she'd be polite about it. She shouldn't let her middle-of-the-night irrationals determine her reaction. If it was only a case of being short-handed, being understanding and polite might grease the wheels and get her better service. Diplomacy wasn't just for aliens, after all.

=======

T minus 7 days, 23 hours

The snap preceding her disappearance startled him. One moment they'd been adrift in a boat, the next she was missing--the loss wounded him.

But what was this?

Opening his eyes took concentrated effort. It felt like they'd crusted over. Someone wiped his face with a wet cloth.

"Captain? Can you understand me?"

"Of course, Lieutenant."

"It worked. Thank God, it worked!"

Light poured in--figures swam into cohesive patterns. Black uniform, two pips, short blond hair--Lieutenant McGinnis. Security. She smiled down at him. The alien next to her gave him pause. Spiked dark hair, shining black skin--not the dark brown of human skin but a tarry glistening black--absurdly, the lyrics to an old Gilbert and Sullivan tune ran through his mind. This alien was definitely not a British tar. Nor was he Khevil. Nor did he have a mouth. A blank expanse where that familiar orifice should be. No chin, either.

"Captain, it's good to see you are awake." The speaker leaned into his field of vision. Thick folds of skin layered down cheeks, green eyes --

"deLio."

The L'norim smiled, his torso moving with his head in a cross between a nod and a bow. "I am reassured that you recognize me as well. We were afraid that permanent damage had been done."

"How long have I been unconscious?" His slow-growing awareness of himself told Jean-Luc there were injuries yet untouched. No feeling below his rib cage, a persistent pinching in his shoulder, and that familiar deadness in his chest. . . .

No throb. A dull ache, nothing more. Why he expected more he couldn't be certain, but the loss of whatever it was struck hard. The shock of it wheeled around inside him as deLio spoke.

"It has been four days since the explosion. You were in a coma, from which you just awoke. The D'ria sent us to K'korll, in hopes of ensuring our safety and stopping the Asili's attacks on her world, and referred us to a healer." deLio indicated the black alien. "We had reservations about allowing him to work on you, but it seems his methods worked well enough. We had little hope that you would regain consciousness until he intervened. He works through telekinesis, we think."

"How?"

"I confess that I do not yet know how he is able to heal your injuries, but the proof does seem conclusive. You are awake, and rational, which is more than I could say for you six hours ago when the healer arrived."

Captain, I'm ready to continue with the healing process if you wish.* *The alien's thought skittered around in his head like dry leaves in the wind.

He tried to turn his head. Something held him firmly in a padded grip. That made sense. Given the surreal memories he had of the past days, he must've had serious head injuries, and paralyzation meant spinal injuries as well.

"Leave me alone." His voice sounded so tight, so hard, so angry. So calm, compared to how he really felt. The emptiness clamped down on his rib cage like a vise. Something had been stolen from him.

The alien stood over him and gazed at his face with multifaceted dark eyes. *You do not wish to be healed? There is still much damage remaining. It will take me another day, but I could repair the damage, if you would allow it.

"Leave me alone. Don't touch me." Jean-Luc finally realized what the alien reminded him of--his chinless, tapered head looked like a black radish.

Radish stared at him, then turned away. A moment later, deLio reappeared in Jean-Luc's range of vision.

"Sir?"

"Don't let him near me again. That's an order."

deLio blinked. "We have no other recourse but to have their healers help you. The sooner you are treated the better your prognosis, and it has already been too long since the explosion."

"I don't care, I don't want him prowling around in my mind. Where are we? Where is the ship?"

"We lost contact with the ship after the Asili attacked. The Khevil say that the *Enterprise* made two attempts to return, but that more Asili ships arrived and the initial attack damaged the *Enterprise*. We left the system when the D'ria provided transportation. K'korll is within Alliance territory but I was not given access to star charts I could read, so I do not know how far we are from the ship or Federation space."

"Is there any way to contact our ship?"

"I have tried. But we are now on a planet of telepaths who have no use for spoken communications. There are terminals for offworlders but none that will allow us access to Federation communications channels, and I hesitate to reconfigure one as that may alert the Asili to our presence here."

Pain throbbed in Jean-Luc's forehead. "Is there any way to book passage, or send a message? Any possibility at all?"

deLio considered soberly. "Lieutenant McGinnis believes Commander Troi will be able to sense you and find us that way."

"Will wouldn't risk the ship based on Deanna's guesses. And that's all it would be, at this distance--what is it?"

A long pause. deLio's un-human face gave away only the slightest concern, which was more emotion than one could usually detect. "Captain, could you please tell me the date?"

"You said I've been out for four days. . . that would mean it's around 59116, give or take a few hours."

"List for me the senior officers of the *Enterprise*, if you would."

Something in deLio's demeanor prevented his questioning this--obviously, he was being tested. "Commander Riker, Lieutenant-Commander Data, Lieutenant-Commander LaForge. . . . What is wrong?"

"What about your family? Do you remember their names?"

Jean-Luc glared at the security chief. "I have no family."

"Sir, I have reason to believe that you are unfit for command. Your memory appears to have gaps."

"Gaps? What are you talking about?"

The hissing of the door interrupted. "I brought back food," McGinnis said. A pause. "Commander, is something wrong?"

"The captain is unfit to command in spite of the healing," deLio said slowly as if it pained him to admit it. "His state of mind is suspect."

Jean-Luc fought against the weakness of his arms and the weight on his chest, but could barely move. "deLio, explain this."

"You have forgotten changes in the crew roster that took place several years ago. Mr. Riker and Mr. Data have gone on to other postings. You do not remember your wife and child."

"Wife--" He had to sink back again, it was too much to take in and his head throbbed. "My wife?"

Water rushed in, filling his ears with the roar of waves and the hiss of sea foam across sand. Darkness returned. He heard the cries of the gulls in the distance. He was falling, the stars spun overhead, and before he landed a gull was upon him with a triumphant cry.

  
=======

  
deLio grabbed McGinnis' arm. "He is obviously unconscious. You do not need to shake him."

"But we should keep him awake. I think. I wish I remembered more of my medical training." She let go of the captain's arm and ran her fingers through her short hair, mussing it more than before.

"Go to your room and rest, Lieutenant."

She almost argued, but closed her mouth as quickly as she opened it. He'd made it an order. After she was gone, deLio took a seat on the box she'd been using for a chair--K'korll rarely sat down and never lay down, which accounted for the lack of beds and comfortable chairs.

They would have to leave soon. The K'korll were hiding something. He was sure of it. He found himself hoping, though he doubted it was possible, that Commander Troi could sense her husband's dire condition and come after them. Each time he'd tried to reach the landing field where the shuttles came in from the stations in orbit, he'd noticed several K'korll following him. He never got so far as seeking actual passage off the planet. The closer he got to the shuttles, the more followers appeared out of side streets and around corners. The aliens were physically fragile, but seemed perfectly willing to stand in his way if he tried to get off the planet. Today he had walked right up to the gates and been confronted with a line of the aliens, two deep and twelve long, simply standing between him and the reservations kiosk inside the gate. He hadn't tried to push through; the captain needed him, and he didn't trust McGinnis completely.

Suspicion of a fellow crew member wasn't good. He didn't understand why suddenly he felt that way--McGinnis had been aboard for a year and been on missions with him three times so far. That he now had misgivings about her disturbed him, more so that he couldn't even pinpoint what misgivings he had.

Picard lay as he'd fallen, arms askew and crooked on the makeshift bed. deLio gently straightened his limbs. He wasn't eating enough, or the alien foodstuffs weren't agreeing with his physiology; the captain had never been large, but now he looked gaunt, with dark hollows under his eyes. The oversized tunic and shorts they had managed to procure on Khevlin didn't help.

deLio regretted allowing the K'korll to work with the captain, though they had mended the broken bones and freed him from paralysis. Perhaps it was an extension of his mistrust of McGinnis, which might be a reaction to the circumstances they were in. Perhaps the expressionless black faces and silent comings and goings made him nervous--an expression of the instinctual fear of things completely foreign. The K'korll didn't have music. They might not even have ears. Loud noises, the roar of a shuttle taking off or a chance collision of their carts in the hospital halls, never phased them. It made for an alien environment for deLio and had him perpetually on alert, hardly able to sleep.

Which, now that he thought about it, might be most of his problem. No sleep.

He checked the captain. Picard breathed steadily, apparently deep in whatever state in which he spent most of his time. deLio lay on the floor between the door and the captain's bed and stared at the ceiling, then closed his eyes and did his best to relax.

He jerked awake and checked his tricorder for the time. Two hours. Vestiges of his dreams flitted away even as he tried to recall what had made him breathless and put him on alert. The captain's regular breathing was the only sound, and it seemed loud in the tiny room.

They had to get off this planet.

The door opening brought him to his feet in a second. McGinnis stared at him, and he returned the wary look, then shook himself.

"We are leaving," he said softly.

"Sir?"

"Have you been having vivid dreams that you cannot remember?"

She blinked in amazement. "You, too?"

"I am starting to remember. I find myself questioning everything, constantly on alert--Lieutenant, my people do not normally dream. It is not part of our psychology. I believe we may be in more danger here than we were from the Asili. Do you concur?"

McGinnis glanced around at the stark walls and nodded once. "If they're trying to work their way into our minds--" She stared at the captain, who still lay unconscious.

"Gather our things. We are leaving, if we must stun every K'korll we see and steal one of their shuttles."

=======

"How long?"

"Four hours." Dr. Mengis kept her flat on her back with a firm hand to her shoulder. "You should remain for further observation. There was no explanation for your unconsciousness, no--"

"I'm fine. I'm not injured. It was intentional. I was looking for the captain. . . ."

Mengis turned to speak softly to a nurse who had approached. After the nurse had gone again, he said, "You are crying. I take it that means you were not successful."

"Have we re-established contact with the Khevil?" Her voice didn't want to cooperate; forcing the words out past the lump in her throat proved difficult.

"We made the attempt. The Asili have brought in reinforcements and must be blocking the signal. I'm sorry to say that chances lessen as more time passes--if the Asili were indeed hired solely to block the Federation's talks with the Khevil, the away team may be beyond our help." He stopped, staring, and she realized that the look on her face must have been the reason.

"May I be released now?" she asked carefully, almost losing her composure. "I need to go to my son. I have responsibilities, I have to talk to Ward."

"Dr. Selar would like to take you into a more private area and speak with you further."

Deanna sat up, noting diffidently the usual sickbay gown she'd been put into, and realized Selar had been standing nearby. The Vulcan nodded and gestured; Deanna followed her into the back ward, beyond Dr. Mengis' office. She took a seat on one of the two beds as Selar indicated.

"I do not wish to be intrusive," Selar said carefully. "However, I believe that I have cause for my concern. It has been noted by some of our fellow crew that your relationship with your husband has an. . . unusual dynamic. As a Vulcan, I am aware of the possible nature of said dynamic. When Guinan found you, called sickbay and we performed the initial examination, the first thought I had was of a bond--I considered speaking with Dr. Mengis about a meld but refrained pending a worsening of your condition. I did not wish to pry unnecessarily."

Deanna sensed little--like all Vulcans Selar could be impervious to empathy, with only the slightest of murmurings perceptible behind well-maintained shields--but knew there had to be a motivation for this explanation. Selar had something in mind, or she would never have admitted such intent.

"You experienced a severance," Selar said, more careful than before. Questioning. Her dark eyes met Deanna's at last. Unlike her controlled facial musculature, those eyes gave away a shared pain and an acceptance of it. "Before you woke. It was why you woke--I would like to help, if you wish it. To attempt healing."

Deanna didn't voice acquiescence, but she didn't have to. Her eyes didn't leave Selar's as she lay down, and at the touch of fingers warmer than her skin she closed her eyes.

She'd experienced a Vulcan mind meld only once before. Betazoids were different, day to Vulcan's night, though they did respect privacy as assiduously. She didn't fear a telepath's touch, and she knew that Selar would never reveal anything she learned, bound doubly by a doctor's ethics as well as by Vulcan ethics.

Selar manifested in her thoughts with none of the imagery to which Jean-Luc was so prone, and none of the affection and consternation of Lwaxana, the only other regular visitor to Deanna's mind. Selar moved through efficiently and neither wasted time nor intruded deeply. The cool touch on the bruised parts of her mind soothed her.

They understood without speech in the way of telepaths. When Deanna opened her eyes Selar's hand was moving away from her face, the heated contact points on her skin cooling rapidly.

"It does not appear to have been the result of death," Selar said. "There is a resonance, however faint, that I believe is foreign. It feels very alien to me. The work of another telepath."

"It's possible." Tears pulled at Deanna's eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm very tired."

"You expended considerable effort in maintaining the prolonged link with him. You should rest, here, and allow us to monitor you a while longer. Your son is well cared for and will benefit from your rest."

One cannot argue with logic. Selar left her. In the quiet, she mourned and cried silent tears, rolling on her side and mustering enough energy to locate Yves. Restless but quiescent, probably with Guinan, her son was tired and recently-fed. Guinan herself remained the same steady, unrevealing presence as always.

Selar was wrong. The ache of her heart and the drum of her pulse in her ears shouted the wrongness. Jean-Luc was gone.

This wasn't happening, it had to be a dream, like the ones she'd been having--she would wake up any moment now and find him leaning over her to kiss her cheek in that gentle, reverent way he had sometimes in the morning, when he'd already been up being Papa and was feeling a renewal of satisfaction and gratitude intermingling with his love for her --

Deanna crossed her arms across her belly. She would wake. This would be a nightmare. The hours dragging by as she lay with hot tears forcing themselves from her tightly-shut eyes proved it untrue, however.

Only reality could be so interminably painful.

She fought to meditate. The only thing that would make this worse was another miscarriage. She doubted her emotional state could induce one beyond four months, but as she had learned, she could take nothing for granted.

=======

"I've been doing a lot of explaining, a lot of showing--it's all in my report." Laerta pointed at the padd in Admiral Jellico's hand. "Basically, trying to be a good hostess. Their arrival here was certainly the last thing any of us expected--"

"Thank you, Ambassador, that will be all." Jellico gave her a token smile and turned to one of his companions. She had the feeling if she walked out of this garishly-decorated hotel room, she'd never know what happened with the Asili, and never get any credit for what she'd done. And she'd done more than the admiral gave her credit for, too. Plus, she suspected Jellico, with his brusque manner, wouldn't fare well with Bela--and if the future of Federation-Asili relations depended on him making a good impression on the Asili, Laerta feared for the future of the peace between Federation and Alliance.

"Sir, when you say all--is it complete dismissal, or am I still--"

"All is all, Ambassador," Jellico said, eyeing her with veiled annoyance. "I'm here to handle the Asili, take charge of the situation. You can return to your own duties. Starfleet is grateful for your help in this matter."

"But I'm the ambassador here. I made the first overtures. They'll think it's odd that I disappeared, don't you think?"

Jellico stared. She could imagine his thoughts -- sometimes the 'fleeters could be so damned arrogant. "This is a delicate situation -- "

"Yes, I know. Randra Alliance, no negotiations and boom, negotiations, and everyone's walking around on tiptoe trying to figure out if this is real and what it means to the Federation and Starfleet, who really don't want anything to do with another war. War bad, expensive. I understand this, Admiral, really, I'm not a complete tyro. Even second-string ambassadorial staff can comprehend Starfleet's interest in this. Which is why I think it's counter-productive for you to dismiss me entirely."

"Ambassador--"

"I have been, in my personnel file that you haven't bothered to look at, commended for my intuitive, insightful way of connecting with the less 'human,' more alien sorts of aliens. And I have been schooling a nine-foot-tall Asili with quills and a nasty-sharp overbite in the ways of the Federation for a few days now, and oh-so-slowly dragging out details of her culture. Do you want my informal hunch-ridden report now, or later, after you've read the dry details as formatted appropriately into bureaucraspeak?"

Jellico sighed, the formal smile giving way to a forbearance and even a hint of humor. He shoved the chair back from the table, glanced around the small living room of the suite he'd apparently paid no attention to--his gaze lingered on the inexplicable deep red draperies hanging down the wall over the desk--and gestured at one of his companions, the woman lieutenant, to tend to the wet bar.

"All right, Ambassador. What's the unofficial story here? And what would you like to drink?"

She got through the unexpected appearance of the Asili vessel, the middle-of-the-night call to her, the initial meeting, and the first day by the bottom of a dry martini. She'd also finally remembered Jellico--one of her fellow ambassadors had told her over drinks of Captain Jellico, instrumental in many dealings with the Cardassians, and now that she remembered in what ways he'd been instrumental, she could begin to work with him effectively.

"What I've found out so far--thanks, Lieutenant," she said, swapping empty glass for full with the woman, "about the Asili culture won't take long. Part of this is my conjecture from what I've observed and answers given by Bela. It's fairly obvious that of the three species represented in the group, the Asili is the dominant one. I'd push that further and assume that it's the female Asili who dominate the species--but female's only an approximation, she's really not quite the same as 'female' in human terms. She's judging the people she meets by smell, or by some sense I can't guess at--she likes or dislikes almost on contact, and isn't interested in long conversation unless she likes someone. Her preference so far has been for humans, Klingons, Rigellians and Betazoids. She dislikes Vulcans, Andorians, and a host of others listed in my official report."

"Interesting. No idea why one and not the other?" Jellico picked up her report and fingered the keys to look for the list.

"I'm still trying to think of what the likes have that the dislikes don't. She asks plenty of questions, but the answers to my questions about her come slower, or are vague and inconclusive. It may be a matter of trust. It may be a translator glitch--I've run into those before. New species, translator takes a while to parse the input it's given. So I've baby-stepped the whole way, since I've not figured out yet what her rank is in the Alliance, if she has any, and what the little guys with her are here to do. The Chechik, Bisfa, speaks to me directly and seems almost friendly. The other two I can't even begin to guess--they don't speak to me directly and the translator makes a mess of what they say to Bela. I may have misinterpreted and the little guys are actually in charge, but they'd be deliberately hiding it if so; they fetch and carry for both Bela and Bisfa."

Jellico dropped the padd on the table, took up his martini, and sighed. "Well, one thought--the 'likes,' as you call them, have some biological similarities to each other that the 'dislikes' don't. The first thing that strikes me as a possibility is in the blood chemistry. Another would be diet. If she's deciding by smell, either one could be a factor."

"I thought about diet." Laerta sipped -- that lieutenant made a damn good martini. "Most Betazoids are vegetarian, like Vulcans, and there are plenty of humans who are also vegetarians. I'm one of them. But biological similarities. . . . I'm no biologist. Sociology is more my thing."

Jellico nodded, smiling. "Lieutenant Tierney here is a biologist. Where are the delegates now?"

"In their rooms. It's early yet--they don't typically stir until around lunch time. Accustomed to a different diurnal schedule, no doubt."

"Good. I'd like to read this now. Lieutenant-Commander Eirdna, please go with the ambassador and discuss security arrangements?"

Laerta sighed. "About that? I've had a tough time with security. I put a courtesy guard on their rooms at night, just because I offered and they accepted--I don't think anyone here would make any attempts to bother them, and I've rented up the entire wing on that floor to make sure they're not disturbed. I've done my best to keep a low profile and not spread around where they're from. The last thing I need is journalists asking intrusive questions the Asili wouldn't understand, and believe me, there's plenty of room here for misunderstandings. You might want to get nose filters, there's the smell issue to deal with."

"Smell?" Tierney echoed.

"Like a wet unwashed Klingon, with a hint of boggy dog hair thrown in. Bela's not bad in the open but the rooms are going to need the upholstery redone, I have the feeling."

Eirdna opened a case he'd pulled from a pile of similar cases. "Nose filters. What about taste?"

Sometimes, really bad cases of body odor could be tasted. The two senses, in humans at least, were that close to one another. "I still have my blocker under my tongue. Put it in first thing. I've had the four of them in a private box watching the games for two days so I've made it habit."

Eirdna tucked the metallic gadget under his tongue, clipped the nose filter in place with a bit up each nostril, and grinned. "Let's go discuss security. We'll be back shortly, sir, after I've had a look around."

He had to be colony-bred, Laerta thought. Not too many Terrans with gold-streaked brown eyes. She led him from the room and through the hotel at a leisurely pace. "Are you from Grantis?"

"It's the eyes, isn't it?" He grinned again. Was she imagining his teeth were slightly pointed? "How do you know about Grantis?"

"I get around more than the average citizen." Laerta tossed her hair back and wished she'd put it up. Deneva this time of year was so humid her fine blond curls became limp and lifeless. "There aren't too many places in the Federation where you can play genetic games without the Big Guys catching up to you. I like the eyes."

"Thanks. So, where did you put them?" he asked as they entered a lift.

"Top floor, facing into the courtyard. There's a row of trees just below their balcony, not tall enough to climb up to the windows but just tall enough to catch a jumper and give him a chance of getting out with a few broken bones rather than as a much shorter, gelatinous individual."

Eirdna's brow furrowed. "And?"

"I did a sweep of the rooms before they moved in. Showed them how to use the various facilities, including the panic buttons on the comm panels. I programmed one to buzz me directly, another to the local security h.q., and one to the hotel management. I made sure the shades were rolled down over the balconies so no one could see in from the air and had the hotel roll down those over the rest of the perimeter of the courtyard."

He sniffed, looking at her appreciatively. "Thorough. How long have you been an ambassador?"

"Long enough to have seen everything from a bombing to a delegate's enemies tracking him down and hunting him through halls full of panicked hotel guests. I've not always been in charge, but I've seen enough to know what to do."

"What makes you think it's all necessary for this group?"

She shrugged as the lift doors opened on the top floor. "I don't. I just think it's too important not to take every precaution I can."

Eirdna stood still, too still, and let the lift doors close again. He cleared his throat lightly. "I'm going to tell you something I might get in trouble for revealing. But I think you deserve to know."

"I can be discreet."

"Good." He licked his lips and sucked briefly on the lower one. "The admiral's humoring you right now. That might change."

"Why?"

"Federation security," he said faintly.

"And if you told me, you'd have to kill me?"

"No. It's just not smart for me to talk about it. You already know part of it. The Alliance is a big problem, if we can't establish some sort of diplomatic connection with them."

"Well, that's what we're here to do. I think it's going well enough. Though it's odd you didn't bring a linguist, or more than one of them, maybe a translator expert to facilitate the adaptation of the universal translator to. . . ."

Laerta stared at Eirdna's face. He'd gone completely still and waited for her to finish, and then waited a few minutes beyond that. In the bright light in the garishly-gold interior of the lift, the gold streaks in his eyes were even more visible.

"This may be a legitimate diplomatic overture on their parts," he said softly. Stepping forward, he activated the door sensor and left the rest of it unsaid.

Laerta followed him down the hall, holding on to the voiced possibility, trying to ignore the unvoiced one and hoping that it was just more 'fleet paranoia. Or her own. It occurred to her that the admiral may have humored her to keep her quiet more than anything else, and being a security risk alarmed her in new and spine-tingling ways.

=======

Picard drifted back to awareness to find himself still attached to the stretcher, still at the mercy of others, and still spinning in a curious state of detachment that he couldn't define. The narrow room they were in smelled, oddly, of cloves and coffee. Probably his senses trying to redefine an unknown in terms of a known. Judging from sounds, McGinnis was moving about, and Jean-Luc tried to move and found himself tied down firmly as before.

Abruptly, the dark-eyed girl was there, looking down at him. He gasped. She sat astride him, but he couldn't feel a thing--but he could. She touched his face and leaned down. A kiss fluttered along his forehead.

"Sir? Are you all right?" McGinnis' voice came from a great distance. All he could see was the woman, dark hair loose around her face, the starlit sky behind her. She smiled promises at him.

"Help me. They took it away, something's missing--"

"Damn," McGinnis whispered from the darkness. "The telepath said he'd healed the brain damage."

"Brain damage, hell, I'm fine," Picard exclaimed. The dark-eyed woman had vanished. What was her name again? The ceiling seemed to be an off-putting shade of green.

"Sir," McGinnis began, sounding like she might be crying, "I'm sorry--"

"Where are we?" The coffee smell was so strong he could taste bitterness. Pain throbbed in his right temple. He had to get up off this table. His hand twitched, responding too slowly, and he sought purchase on the hard surface. "When is she coming back?"

"Sir--"

He lost the words in a roar of static, and the darkness took him. Wandering in the dark with no purpose and no idea what was going on, he called out repeatedly, but the woman didn't return.

"Captain?"

He turned around. The radish man was back. Still mouthless, he nevertheless had a voice.

"What are you?" Picard asked.

"A friend." The black alien gestured at him. "I can help you. All you have to do is tell me what the Federation's plans are. How they intend to conquer the Randra Alliance."

"We don't conquer anyone. Leave me alone!"

"Tell me of your Starfleet," the alien murmured. "You are an officer. We saw from your mind that you command one of their ships. You will give me the secrets of its defenses."

This had to be a telepathic invasion. The alien's mind pressed his, trying to force its way further in. The only reason he could imagine it hadn't been more successful was that it hadn't seen a human before and didn't understand the foreign brain patterns. There might be a way to fight it.

He could only think of one way--overwhelm his thoughts and emotions with something so all-encompassing that the alien couldn't distract him or work around it. Only one thing he could think of fit that description, and might even drive it away.

He sneered at the alien in his mind's eye, and raised his arm. In his hand's place was a prosthesis; he imagined in detail the weaponry embedded in it. One step, then another, and the alien pressure on his mind eased. So far, so good.

"I am Locutus of Borg," he announced. "I reject your invasion. Leave me alone."

"Your attempt will be unsuccessful."

"Irrelevant. We are the Borg." The voices were rising in his memory, the ocular implant sending him telemetry--how easy this was. How terrifying that it was so easy.

"Distractions will not sway us," the alien said, and pressed forward again.

Picard felt the impact as if it were a physical blow to the head. He retaliated but not in kind--he let himself remember, and as he did so the memories returned in startling clarity. Perhaps the telepaths were pushing him to remember other things and so aided him in this unwittingly.

The pain. Sweeping waves of pain, from head to toe, as the nanoprobes did their work internally and the drones operated. He fought it all over again, straining to keep himself apart from the rush of voices pushing into his thoughts.

He was to be different. Locutus was not another drone. Locutus would be the Federation's undoing. They would know the weaknesses of Starfleet.

Saws cut bone. He heard it. Felt it. Implants burrowed into him. Nanoprobes created more implants inside; one sprouted on his forehead, and the drill--his eye --

Shards of individuality, screaming for freedom, but unvoiced. Needles, probes, implants. The voices. The voices. Streaming data. Telemetry.

The cube.

The cube wasn't just a ship. It was part of the Collective. The phaser fire ripping at its hull registered on the Collective consciousness as an attack. It registered in Locutus as pain, interpreted by a half-assimilated brain as such.

Resistance is futile, Number One.

"Resistance is futile." Jean-Luc stood again on the cube, amid a kaleidoscope of images sent by sensors, by drones, by all the cube's resources. The Starfleet ships were many, but the cutting beams sliced them up like fruit.

The cold of space on his skin. Energy skated along the periphery of sensors, the impacts on the shields, and the hive mind emotionlessly compensated for all of it. Send drones here. Beam drones to that ship. Allocate energy to this part of our shields. It was all background noise to Locutus, who stood as part but apart, and there--there. She was here.

The queen stepped forward. "What a pathetic creature," she said, smiling. The radish alien now stood in a node. Drones stepped out of alcoves. The queen prowled, sizing up the alien. "Species 2,385. Classified, but judged as unfit. Technological advances unimpressive."

"Who are you?" the alien asked.

The queen shared a knowing, anticipatory smile with Locutus. She reached around and touched the chinless face, guiding him to look at her. "You'll find out."

The tubules caught the alien unaware, in the exposed throat. He jerked and tried to free himself, but the drones stepped in.

Assimilation. Pain. Searing. The last few frantic individual thoughts. The memories of what that was like were still there in the Collective, acknowledged as fact, the Borg mentality such that it was not threatened by them. Pain was irrelevant. Individuality was irrelevant.

Locutus heard the alien's anguished cries. The pressure was gone. The queen and the alien were gone. The drones turned to their alcoves. Crossing the node, Locutus took his place in an empty alcove, reverted to regeneration mode, and slept.

Until he jerked awake. His head hurt. Something had awakened him--something perfectly normal. He needed to get up.

McGinnis had his arm. "Sir, it's all right."

"I told him not to touch me!" The walls spun around him. He must've swayed. The lieutenant held on to him but the room swam and dipped madly.

"There's no one here but me."

"Go away!"

"Sir, please stop pushing me away. I have some food here, are you hungry?" Too bright. She was treating him like a small child who could be distracted easily.

"In a minute. Where's the head?"

She helped him up and into a tiny compartment adjacent to the cabin. He pushed her out, groping for the door quickly and leaning against the wall to catch himself before vertigo pulled him to the floor. The alien facilities weren't too difficult to figure out but it took too long due to his weakened condition and the unsteadiness of his legs.

He sat on the cold blue metal commode, trying to regain his equilibrium, and hated the weakness, the bruises up and down his bare legs, the short tunic and sagging shorts made of rough rust-red material. Hated the stubble on his chin, and how weak he was. Hated the circumstances.

Picard wished he could remember more about the events prior to the blast. He knew there were gaps in his memory, but it couldn't be helped. At the moment the important thing was to get back to the ship. He had to find out what had really happened.

He flinched when a knock at the door woke him. Drifting off on the cold, hard seat with his back against the wall--unbelievable. Panting, he struggled with his legs, willing them to move, to straighten, and shoved. His hands slid down the wall. He couldn't reach the damned shorts.

The door opened, just a crack. "Sir, are you all right?"

"Fine! Give me a minute!" he snapped.

"I forgot about--I mean, there's nothing in there. You've been in there so long I finally figured out. . . here." A hand poked in, holding a wad of something that could be either paper or gauze.

He took it, balancing carefully, and thanked her. The door closed. Leaning heavily as he dared against the slick wall, he managed to finish and get his shorts up one-handed without falling. By the end of the maneuver he panted and daggers of pain poked him in the back.

McGinnis was there to catch him when he staggered out. She eased him to the floor where he'd been laying and put something beneath his head for a pillow.

"Do you need anything else?" she asked.

Sanity. Something to replace that void in his chest --whatever it was the radish had taken from him. To do away with the endless tingling in his legs, and the numbness of his fingers. To be taken to his ship and sickbay.

"No," he rasped, his eyes closing in spite of him. Darkness fell hard, and silence.

=======

deLio heard McGinnis coming forward and spoke without turning. His eyes remained on the readouts. "How is he?"

"He came out of it and went to sleep. We've taken off?"

"They're letting us go. The tractor beam released us. The computer came online. I don't know why, but we're almost out of the atmosphere."

"That's fortunate. It's too bad they don't believe in chairs, I really would like to fall into one."

"You should rest if you can. I will wake you in five hours, or if anything of note occurs. Finding the *Enterprise*, for example. It will take some time for me to study their navigational data, to see if I can correlate it with our method of reference."

McGinnis moved off again. deLio was left with the computer, which had a few similarities to systems with which he was familiar, but was annotated with foreign symbols he had spent their time among the K'korll trying to learn. He feared he didn't know enough about them yet, but there was no other option.

When he left the bridge with the ship still cruising at impulse speeds out of the K'korll system six hours later, he found Picard sleeping, thankfully not comatose, curled on his side with a makeshift pillow under his head and McGinnis' uniform jacket over him like a blanket. McGinnis had curled up on the floor across the narrow compartment from their captain and slept soundly as well.

Quietly, gently, deLio touched Picard's forehead as McGinnis had done so often. He thought the captain's fever must have broken. There wasn't a sheen of perspiration, and the human's skin had cooled to the temperature deLio assumed was normal for all Terrans.

Picard's eyes opened. deLio withdrew his hand but remained crouched at the captain's side. After the startlement and wariness, Picard's eyes showed recognition. He glanced over at McGinnis.

"Commander," he whispered.

"Sir."

"We've left the planet. Haven't we?"

"Yes, sir. Your mistrust of the K'korll was justified. I believe they were trying to manipulate us."

"I know they were. Where are we headed now?"

"I don't know. This is a K'korll vessel. There are no audio warning tones or voice controls, and I am forced to rely on a limited knowledge of their alphabet. We could be heading for Federation space, or further into Alliance territory. I have been working to decipher their star charts and match them to something I recognize."

Picard sat up. "I'll help. Let's have a look."

deLio had to support his weight, but once on his feet the captain seemed steadier than he'd been the last few times he'd awakened. Absently pulling the too-large shirt straight, Picard headed for the bridge. deLio followed, feeling more optimistic than he had in days.

=======

Deanna woke from restless dreams, gasping and pushing away the nurse's hands. "I'm all right."

"You screamed," Lieutenant Lindsay said. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Just a bad dream."

Lindsay waited as Deanna resettled. She wiped Deanna's face with something damp--it felt good. Her face hovered pale, like a ghost in the dimness. "You were shouting about the Borg."

It took her aback. "What was I saying?"

"You were ordering people to fire at them. I think at one point you were trying to initiate self-destruct, and you kept insisting that you weren't Locutus. Who is Locutus?" Unbelievably, there were officers now who didn't know.

"It doesn't matter. I'd like to get back to sleep."

"If you need me just call." Lindsay moved out of the room.

Deanna stared into the shadows, estimating the odds of her dreaming Borg dreams without external influence at slim to none. She searched again for the bond and found nothing. Still the ache. But there had to be something left, if Locutus had made an appearance.

Something. It kept her awake musing about it. Sitting up, she folded her legs beneath her and tried meditation. Sickbay wasn't the right place for it, though, and she couldn't relax enough.

When she emerged from the back ward wearing a robe she'd replicated to throw over the sickbay gown, Lindsay exclaimed, "No. I barely kept my job the *last* time I let you walk out of here against doctor's orders, you turn right around--"

"I can't sleep. I tried to meditate -- no," she said as Lindsay reached for a rack of hypos. "This is important, Lieutenant. I'm trying to sense the captain and I can only do it if I can meditate. I'm going to my quarters. You can bring a medkit and come with me if you like. Please?"

Being the only patient there helped. Lindsay called for a relief to mind sickbay. Deanna hurried through the corridors, encountering few people, but as she and the nurse left the lift on deck eight her luck turned. Natalia Greenman was waiting there, looking tired and surprised.

"Hi," she gasped. "Um. How are you?"

"As tired as you look. Have you been taking your turn as babysitter?"

"Of course. Um. . . ." She scratched the back of her head, looking back the way she'd come. "Guinan's with him now. He's doing fine, but he fusses a lot."

"I appreciate your help, Nat. Very much. Thank you. You should get some sleep now."

The lieutenant nodded, questions burning in her eyes, but she went in the lift without a word.

Guinan was waiting for them when Deanna entered. Her eyes registered understanding and relief. "The lieutenant is here to monitor you?"

"I need to meditate. Can you stay for Yves? I have something to do that I'll have to concentrate very hard for. I'm sorry I've been gone so long, I didn't--"

"Don't worry about it. I'll be here--he's been no real trouble."

Lindsay recovered from her surprise, which Deanna had sensed upon their entry; just a mild reaction to Guinan's long braided hair, she guessed. The hostess usually took off her hat while babysitting.

Deanna checked on her son. His former nursery was undergoing a slow metamorphosis to a child's bedroom. Yves sat on the floor near the small bed studying something. His focus and seriousness reminded her of Jean-Luc. When he noticed her he smiled and dropped the item. A spoon, she realized.

"Mama," he cried, using the bed to pull himself up. He ran to her, arms wide, and she caught him up.

"Hi, petit ami," she murmured. His soft cheek against her lips, she hummed and rocked him for a few minutes. "What do you have over here?"

"Poon," he announced. She put him down; he led her over to show her. "Poon," he said, holding it up to her.

"Spoon. Yes, I know. What about it?"

"Look," he said, touching the inside of the spoon. "'Side down. Onna back, 'side up."

She took the offered utensil and studied it. "Oh. You mean your reflection, upside down, right side up. That's because it's curved, see?"

"Combex."

"Com. . . convex? This side is convex. Who taught you that?"

"Papa tode me," Yves said, grinning. "Where's Papa?"

She should have known. Smiling through the pain, she knelt and kissed his forehead. "He'll be back soon. Let's get you to bed, okay? Want to read me a story?"

She helped him into the pajamas of his choosing and tucked a little officer into bed, wishing that Malia hadn't gotten him the Starfleet uniform pajamas for his birthday. He didn't read the story he chose so much as he repeated it from memory while turning the pages and tracing the sketched children with his finger. The lisping repetition of 'The Day a Vulcan Came to School' fell into a cadence she knew he picked up from Papa, the same as the substitution of Mrs. Dimble for Mrs. Dimples. Reading to him at bedtime was one of the things Jean-Luc enjoyed most, so she'd not done it very often, making it Papa's time.

Yves closed the book and reached for her. She leaned down for a hug, and he held on longer than she expected. It wasn't because he was afraid, or insecure--she guessed this must be part of the routine, too, that Papa would hug him this way.

"I lubboo," Yves mumbled.

"I love you, petit. Good night."

She tucked him in again, went to put the book in the shelf with the others, and put out the lights on the way to the door. Crossing the living area swiftly, she managed to not look at Guinan or Lieutenant Lindsay and hoped they hadn't noticed her moist eyes. It took a few moments to regain composure and prepare herself for what she'd come here to do.

While Deanna sat on the bed, the nurse walked in, took a chair in the opposite corner of the room, and placed the medkit on the nearby table. Deanna crossed her legs and sighed, resigning herself to being watched.

She pressed her fingertips to her temples, focused on meditation, and hardly knew when her hands dropped into her lap. He was there, somewhere. She reached, reached, and kept reaching, calling to him. Hoping he would answer.

Nothing. She kept trying until her concentration failed her.

Deanna opened her tear-filled eyes to find Lindsay hovering over her with worried eyes. "How long?" she gasped.

"Three hours," the lieutenant said. "Let me give you a sedative, please? You need rest--Dr. Mengis will tranquilize you himself in the morning if you don't."

"Just a mild one, please." Deanna closed her eyes again before the sound of the hypo.

=======

"What's that?" Picard pointed at a red blip on a panel.

deLio studied the panel and those surrounding it. "Another vessel. If you will note, this panel is displaying text. I believe that is an incoming transmission."

"What I wouldn't give for a decent voice interface," Picard grumbled, ignoring deLio's startled look. "Can you make out what they're trying to say?" The symbols reminded Picard of hieroglyphics. Two even resembled the jackal god Annubis and the eye of Ra.

The ship rocked, and the bridge tilted. More lights flashed yellow and green across the panels. "Leave?" deLio guessed, reaching for the navigational controls.

"Reverse course. Let's see if we can't get more speed out of this thing."

McGinnis hurried in, out of breath. "What's going on?"

"We appear to be trespassing. We're trying to --" The ship jolted beneath them again. "Damn. There's got to be something -- " Another jolt rattled the bridge.

The panels all went dark. They stood together while distant impacts on the hull and tremors spoke of their impending captivity.

"It's a good thing I'm not on leave," Picard observed as metal shrieked and a loud pop signaled the breaching of the hull. "Things would be much worse."

"Sir?"

"I believe the captain is trying to make a joke," deLio said.

Another concussion. Alien voices came from the back of the ship. Picard went first, but deLio crowded up behind him and edged around his captain to confront the unknown. Picard let him go, glanced at McGinnis' determined expression, and let her go as well.

=======

The aliens had cut through the hull and attached a boarding access point. Regardless of what happened, abandoning ship was now a necessity; with a hole that size in its side, the shuttle was no longer space-worthy. deLio smelled them before he saw them--a damp woolly scent that told him many things about the people boarding their ship. He hissed, disliking his lack of defensive weaponry and the cramped interior with no escape route.

The first alien to come in raised his head and flared nostrils like a startled predator. A crested mane of red needles dipped in black rattled to attention. Then it raised a device and spoke, lips curling back from sharp canines. The device had to be a translator.

"You are not K'korll," came the re-translated translation via deLio's own translator. In the absence of a comm link to the ship's computer, it was working from the tricorder hanging at his side. He hoped the tricorder's batteries would last. It would be less capable and slower than the ship's computer, but it was better than nothing.

"We escaped them in one of their ships. We do not know how to operate it." deLio spread his hands, showing no weapons and no threat as plainly as he could.

The nostrils flared wide again, the mane rattled, and the alien leaned back and half-snarled--deLio relaxed again as it ceased and gestured toward the access tube while taking a step sideways. "We are the Zekotha, and the K'korll are no friends of ours, so you must be our friends. It is obvious you cannot navigate this--you were on a course for *arrgzheralllll* and no one would wish to go there. Come with us. We will leave this stinking hole adrift for the K'korll to find if they ever care to clean up their own excrement."

deLio glanced at the captain and McGinnis. It was a risk, but there was little choice left to them, considering the hole in the hull.

"Thank you," Captain Picard said, taking the first step toward the new door.

The Zekotha were friendly, deLio realized, in the way of predators who ran in packs. Now that the strangers rescued from the shuttle were friends, they were shown to the bridge, where a broad viewscreen ran half the circumference of the oval room, and were allowed to watch as the Zekotha encouraged a much-younger member of their crew to practice his skill with the ship's weapons. The K'korll shuttle spun and came to pieces under the volley of lurid orange energy bolts while the older Zekotha howled and rattled their manes approvingly.

The one that had greeted them turned and half-bowed, shaking his mane and dipping his muzzle. "You are welcome among us. I am Gretha, the first mate. I have placed you under my protection. Your names?"

The captain introduced them, sounding very much himself all of a sudden. It was as though he wore his uniform and not the ill-fitting garments they'd found. deLio eyed him, as did McGinnis. Picard had been displaying odd behavior, twitches and facial expressions uncharacteristic of their captain. He seemed to have improved a hundredfold since they'd stolen the shuttle. It appeared to prove deLio's suspicions about the K'korll.

"Federation," Gretha grumbled. "I have heard of this Federation. You are odd little bipeds--nothing like the Rekotha said you would be."

"They smell like prey," another Zekotha said, sidling close to deLio. "Except this one. You are not like the others."

deLio reacted instinctively--smoothing his mandibular sacs, he opened his mouth and extended the fangs from behind his less impressive row of conical yellow teeth. From the four micro-sharp tips dripped clear poison.

"Not like at all," the Zekotha said again, lips peeled back from pale silver fangs of his own.

deLio retracted the fangs swiftly. "You would be better not to underestimate Captain Picard. Or the Federation. Our people will be searching for us."

"Your people are not searching in our territory," Gretha announced. "We would smell them."

The translators weren't helping with the figures of speech, obviously. The captain stepped in. "They may not know where to search. If you have navigational charts that might show your space in relation to Federation space, it would help us immensely."

"We can do this. But first, we will take you to the Ze."

"The Ze," deLio echoed.

"She is our hechiipa," Gretha said as if explaining the very simple to a small child. "She will wish to see her guests."

Gretha took them to a bare room, no furniture, no decorations on the walls, nothing but a dark viewscreen on the wall. The captain glanced at deLio and McGinnis, studied the viewscreen, and turned to Gretha.

"The Ze doesn't wish to meet us in person?"

"Only another hechiipa may request to see a hechiipa. Only her own first mate dares to approach without her request. It is not safe to bring others to see her."

"Will we be able to speak with her?"

Gretha's muzzle twitched. "Only if she wishes to speak with you. Wait here." He turned and stalked from the room.

"I do not like this," deLio muttered, careful to turn his back to the screen as if studying the back of the room.

"We're guests here, Commander. We may as well make the best of it. They may not be the people we were sent to meet, but they are part of the Alliance."

=======

T minus 3 days, 1 hour

"Orders are orders, sir," Ward said.

Deanna wanted to snap at him, but paced the circumference of the briefing room instead. The senior staff had gathered at her request to discuss the latest orders from Command--go to the Penaias system, investigate attacks on a science installation.

"The data we've received seems to indicate the Asili, again," she stated. "Does anyone else find this disturbing?"

"Of course we do," Geordi said.

"Does anyone else suspect that the Asili are doing this to draw us away?"

"To what end?" Mendez asked.

"They wanted Captain Picard," Deanna exclaimed. "The Khevil have been no help in finding our missing people. Seven days after the initial attack, the Asili vanish from the Khevlin system and when we arrive, we are told by the D'ria that she has no idea where our away team is, that they were probably buried in the rubble--and she was lying to us. She and anyone else we spoke to lied about their deaths. Granted, you have only my word that they're lying, but now that we've waited here in orbit around Khevlin for two days, helping them with their rubble out of the goodness of our hearts so far as they're concerned, we're asked to race at high warp to Penaias and defend against unknown pirates who have ships of the same size and general description as the Asili vessels we fought here, not to mention they fly in the same formations and target the same sorts of structures. Penaias is running on emergency batteries."

"Admiral Farok said that we should avoid finding conspiracies where there are none, that--"

"With all due respect, Ward, admirals are paid to be optimists. And they aren't here. We are here, now, and the captain is somewhere within Alliance space. We are being lied to and now diversionary tactics are under way to keep us from finding the truth of this situation."

"The people on Penaias aren't going to understand why we won't help them," Ward pointed out.

Deanna turned her back to them, staring at the stars. He was right. She could hear Jean telling her as much, if her own conscience wasn't loud enough. She indulged in hating the Khevil and the Alliance for a full minute before turning herself to duty.

"Troi to bridge. After the last away team beams up, set course for Penaias, best possible speed."

"Aye, sir."

She glanced down at her abdomen, silently promising her child that she would find papa soon. Just not today.

"Are you all right, Deanna?"

She turned around to find them gathered behind her. To a man, all of them crossed their arms and studied her with grave concern.

"The captain wouldn't just give up if it were any of you. I'm not giving up. I expect your cooperation." She crossed her arms, too.

"He'd expect you to follow orders," Geordi said.

"Of course. That doesn't mean I can't return to searching for him when we come back. He's not dead," she exclaimed, trying to be matter-of-fact rather than angry. "deLio and the others are probably still with him. We have to find them."

=======

  
The warmth combined with the lack of breathing room woke him. Picard sat up stiffly, his neck hurting and a brief pain in his shoulder. The shelf, too narrow and hard for his liking, creaked under his weight as he felt for the light switch. Gretha had shown him to this small closet-sized room and acted as if it were a great privilege.

Before he found the switch, the door opened, and even the dim light of the corridor seemed bright after the darkness. "Come eat with me," Gretha said.

Picard left the room with his host. "I'm not accustomed to such sleeping arrangements, but I did sleep well. How many of them are your children?" He gestured at some of the smaller versions of Gretha roaming the halls, following up on a theory he'd reached while trying to sleep.

"Why, all of them, of course. As first mate it is my duty to populate our vessel. There are only ten young aboard who are also Ze's -- they will be trained and traded to other clans. The daughters are always thus. We receive the daughters of other clans and their progeny become Zekotha. It is the way. It keeps the peace. How many children do you have?"

Picard remembered deLio's comment that he didn't remember his wife. "I'm not certain," he answered truthfully.

Gretha took it as a humorous remark; yowling, he swatted Picard across the shoulders happily. "You must be a great one! How long have you been first mate?" First mate apparently equated with captain.

"Oh. . . longer than I care to think about."

They were the center of attention once in the great hall, as the translator rendered it. Zekotha had no use for furniture, but shelves around the perimeter seemed to serve as benches. The large pale eyes of the Zekotha must be keen even in dim lighting; shipwide the light levels were less than Terran normal. The hall was alive with Zekotha of all ages, purring and yowling to each other, grooming one another, eating from communal plates with their fingers. Gretha shooed three youngsters from a shelf, took one of the plates from another group huddling on the floor nearby, and Picard joined him in spite of reservations about stealing from children. This wasn't his culture, and it wasn't likely any of their diseases would be communicable.

deLio and McGinnis joined them. Young Zekotha scurried out of their path, and Gretha shoved the platter toward them by way of invitation. The young ones gathered around, moving their own platters closer, watching the visitors with great curiosity.

The away team ate with Gretha in silence until another adult came in, said something about the bridge to Gretha, and the two left in a hurry, manes rattling.

Picard glanced around. "Turn off the translator." After they did so, he continued. "What have you been able to find out?"

"This is a battle ship, of course," deLio said. "In fact, I believe these are Asili."

"How can you tell?" McGinnis asked.

"The configuration of the ship. It matches one of the specifications we were given in pre-mission briefings. I have been engaging the adults in as much conversation as possible. They are one of many clans, all of which have their own fleets of ships, varying in size depending on stature of the clan. The Zekotha are one of the larger, stronger clans, with fifty-seven ships. This is the main ship, upon which Ze lives."

"deLio," Picard began, trying to decide whether to voice the questions that had plagued him for the day they'd spent among the Zekotha. "What was our mission? I remember Khevlin, I know the Asili were mentioned as a possible danger, but there is a. . . gap in my memory, I think. I'm not certain how we came to be here when we were supposed to be on Khevlin."

McGinnis halted, holding a bit of food at her lips, and looked to deLio. The L'norim hissed at a few kittens, or whatever the young were called, and glared at a juvenile who'd crept up behind McGinnis. "You do not remember the K'korll. They were supposed to heal you, which they did, but I question at what cost they did so. Do you remember Commander Troi?"

"Yes, of course. I'll probably spend quite a bit of time with her after this is over." He picked a white object from the platter. "I hope she can help me regain my memory."

The look on McGinnis' face stopped him. "Sir, she's not," she blurted. "The counselor, I mean. You're forgetting Counselor Davidson."

"Perhaps I should take a different approach to this. Who are my senior officers?" His stomach churned at the thought of why he might have new senior officers in place. It was a relief to hear that Will and Beverly had merely moved on, as had Data. When deLio casually named Troi his first officer he almost choked on a mouthful of food.

=======

deLio waited until the captain recovered. "You do not remember," he said softly. "I thought you must remember by now. We told you of the changes before this."

"When was the last time I did remember?"

"Before the K'korll--before we left in that stolen shuttle," McGinnis said. "You said her name frequently while you were delirious." deLio's eyes met hers, and in that moment he decided not to mention why that had been so. McGinnis seemed to understand the warning he wished he could speak out with more than a look.

"You were gravely injured in the collapse of a building during the Asili's attack on Khevlin," deLio added. "We dug you out of the rubble. You were partially paralyzed and incoherent. The D'ria sent us to the K'korll, who had healers to work with you. They healed many fractures and did away with the paralysis. I believe, however, that we were prisoners there and that they attempted to access our thoughts."

"They wanted information on Starfleet's defenses and the Federation," the captain said. "I remember that much. But the last thing I remember before Khevlin. . . ." His brow furrowed, he shook his head. "My head hurts when I try. It's very vague. How odd, that I can't remember. I can almost feel it, it's almost coming to me, but then it's not there at all. . . ."

"Don't," McGinnis said. "When we get back to sickbay the doctor will find a way to help you."

"I can't shake the feeling that something's missing, not just memories--some part of me isn't there." He rubbed along his collar bone absently.

The door hissed open. Gretha strode in, and deLio barely remembered to turn the translator back on as he started to speak.

"The game," Gretha shouted. "Friends, come to the bridge with me. We are on our way to the Great Game."

=======

Deanna tapped her fingers in rhythm along her sleeve. Screaming would not be polite, she told herself.

"So how may we be of assistance, Mr. Killian?"

He wasn't the man in charge--evidently the people who really had any say in anything were all too busy to spare a moment for a starship commander looking for Asili pirates. He was scant-haired, shifty-eyed, and full of raging inadequacy that outdid even Reg Barclay's paranoia. He was, in fact, an assistant to the head scientist. She couldn't decide if he were actually hiding something from her, or if he was only trying to cover his own insecurity.

"Um," he said again. "I'm not sure."

"You said the Asili left an hour ago. Would you happen to know what heading they took?"

"Um. No, Ma'am."

"Would you happen to know who might know what heading they took?"

"Um, that would be. . . Mr. Pim, Ma'am. Captain."

She ignored his error and pressed on. "Is Mr. Pim available?"

"I'll. . . be right back!" He rushed at the control and the screen blinked to a holding pattern.

She waited, hands behind her back, feet together, ignoring the wry amusement the bridge crew felt. Ward came up beside her.

"Like working with a little kid," he muttered. "These non-Starfleet scientist types."

The screen flickered, and now Mr. Killian had another man with him. Someone in Starfleet uniform, to her relief. "I'm Elias Pim, ma'am--sir. Excuse me. The pirate vessels departed on heading 120 mark 34. We don't know why they went, but it was like they were distracted. One minute they were targeting another part of the installation, the next they were gone."

"Do you need assistance?" Deanna asked.

"Thank you, but I believe I speak for all of us in saying we'd much rather you tracked down whoever was responsible for this and made sure it wouldn't happen again. The damage is done, we can clean up rubble and bury bodies and tend the wounded on our own. We're repairing our power plant right now."

"We are very sorry for your losses and the damage done. I assure you, we'll do everything we can to find the parties responsible for this. *Enterprise* out." She glanced at Lana'hai, who stood at tactical, and he ended the transmission. "Lieutenant, follow those pirates. Warp three."

"Course laid in, sir," Greenman reported promptly from the helm.

"Engage. You have the bridge, Mr. Carlisle. Contact me the instant we find them."

She sensed his resistance and eyed him until he responded with a lackluster 'aye' and turned to the view screen. She left the bridge. Left the constant absence of their captain, and went to confront the constant absence of her husband.

Dr. Mengis voiced no sentiments about her missing husband while conducting her bi-weekly checkup. "The fetus is healthy," he said, closing his tricorder. "How are your moods?"

"I'm too sensitive, but light doses of the inhibitor help. I think we've found the right dosage to even it out without depriving me of empathic feedback. The only thing I've been able to eat in the mornings before taking the first dose of inhibitor is bread, but I'm trying to compensate by snacking." The doctor wouldn't let her administer the inhibitor herself, as she had done while pregnant with Yves. He wanted to monitor her dosage closely, after doing more research on its long-term effects.

"What about sleep?"

"Better." She usually fell asleep on the couch, however. He didn't need to know that.

"Do you mean better by an hour, or by seven?" he said, smiling faintly.

"I've gotten about five hours a night for the past week." He knew about the exceptions already. The nights she had nightmares and requested sedatives.

"I don't think you need me to tell you that's not enough."

"No."

"How is Yves?"

"Last night he dissected one of his stuffed animals for no apparent reason. He's been cheerful, mostly, but he wakes in the middle of the night more often these days."

Mengis smiled again, forcing a jovial bedside manner to cover the concern she knew he felt. "Perhaps he's being sensitive to your moods. He misses his father, no doubt."

"Is there anything else, Doctor?" she asked coolly.

"No. I'll see you in two weeks."

Her next stop was the nursery. She hovered outside, 'listening' to her son playing happily. Rather than disrupt the harmony apparent to her, she went to her quarters.

That was a mistake. Without Yves or Jean-Luc, they seemed far too empty. The poetry books she'd been leafing through in search of distraction in her off hours still sat on the end table. She curled her legs beneath her and meditated as well as she could, striving for peace. When it eluded her she reached for a book. Perhaps something in verse might lull her into a light trance.

=======

T minus 7 hours

Picard strode about the bridge trying to make sense of the alien readouts and graphics on small screens. There were over a hundred ships in the area now, the Zekotha making up half of the fleet. The other ships belonged to the Rekotha and the Greokotha, Gretha told him. The Greokotha were Gretha's parent clan, and the Rekotha had been Ze's.

The social structure of the Asili fascinated Picard. Trying to disentangle the rules and traditions took up most of his time and had done so for two days. He still wasn't certain about the mechanics of how ships changed hands, but it was obvious that they did--an EVA team had been sent out to alter the markings on a vessel that had joined Zekotha that morning. The explanation he'd been given generated more questions than it answered.

It was, however, more and more obvious that the Asili in general were ritualistic and thought in linear paths. Things were so simple for Gretha; he seemed unable to comprehend subterfuge. Friends were friends, enemies should never be believed. Now that Picard was his friend, the Federation became a friend.

"We will begin," Gretha called out as he entered the bridge. Manes rattled and faces already covered in ruddy fur darkened. Excited Asili exuded a musky scent, and the bridge became suffocating because of it. After traveling for a full day and enduring the wait while various official exchanges and ritualistic challenges were made, the actual Game had finally started.

"I shall be weapons," an eager young male called out. He was snarled into embarrassed silence by the adults present.

"It is our honor to present that privilege to our guests." Gretha bowed toward Picard.

"deLio," Picard said, gesturing the L'norim toward the weapons console. He knew deLio had been adopted by the Zekotha wholeheartedly, a predator among fellow predators; he'd been sparring with them and learning the way they approached battle. Young Asili leaped around him as he went forward.

The Great Game, so far as Picard could understand it, seemed akin to the staged battle simulations that Starfleet sometimes held. Ze had called one, and allied clans were bound by tradition to attend. If they didn't, they forfeited profitable alliances and all rights accorded by such alliances. Very simple. The same rule applied to requests for help gone unanswered--ignoring a request from an ally was the same as declaring an end to friendship.

McGinnis sidled over from where she'd been talking to one of the adults. "Have they agreed to help us find the *Enterprise*?"

"Gretha said part of Ze's reason for calling the Game was to ask the others if they had seen the *Enterprise*.* The Rekotha in particular have been all over the territories closest to Federation space, she says."

"What's Ze look like?"

Picard sniffed, thinking of his one and only meeting with Ze after they had come aboard. Gretha had insisted that McGinnis and deLio stay in the corridor. "Not so different. But she's obviously in charge for a reason. We should be thankful that females don't do the fighting."

McGinnis glanced around, looking uncomfortable. She hadn't relaxed, in spite of the apparent friendliness of the Zekotha.

"Lieutenant?"

"Sir," she began softly, turning back to him. "Are you saying there are no females elsewhere on the ship? There are an awful lot of Zekotha and they all seem very interested in fighting, or training to do so."

"There are others. But Ze made it plain that they don't participate in the fighting. There are so few of them, they're kept in a secluded area, a second ship, actually. If there's too much damage done to the ship the two sections split apart and the Ze is taken to safety."

McGinnis rubbed her eye with the heel of her hand. She looked as though she hadn't slept in days. "She must be always pregnant. There's a lot of kids on this ship."

Gretha returned to his station in the center of the bridge, high on a podium from which he could see all stations. "We begin!" he snarled, exciting the rest of the Zekotha on the bridge into a frenzy of scurrying young and eager juveniles leaning in to watch the adults.

The game, once under way, proved to be fast-paced and frantic. Close calls abounded and their ship almost collided with others numerous times. deLio acquitted himself well; Picard was pleased to see the speed and rapid reaction time of his tactical officer were equal to that of the Asili.

Then a loud tone sounded over the paging system, and a gruff voice called a halt. "What was that?" McGinnis whispered, letting go of the edge of a console to which she'd clung throughout maneuvers.

"That was Ze's voice. Something tells me we're taking a break." The ships on the viewscreen had all pivoted to a halt, firing maneuvering thrusters to bring them back into strict formation with their fellows.

"An intruder," Gretha rumbled. "There is an intruder on the game."

"It is *Enterprise*,*" came a voice Picard didn't know. "The Rekotha fought with her. She is a worthy adversary."

More voices chimed in over the open channel. deLio looked across the bridge full of agitated Asili to Picard, clearly asking for orders.

"It appears our ship has found us," Picard said over the chatter. Gretha turned, mane bristling, and barked out a laugh.

"Would you like to properly join the game?" he roared. The other voices of dissension and anger died away slowly, their owners probably stunned by the question.

"I would be honored to join the game," Picard shouted back.

=======--=

Gretha called for an extended halt while the captain contacted his vessel, explained what was taking place, and arranged for beamout. It was a great relief, deLio thought, to be finally returning to their own vessel. They arrived on the familiar transporter pad to be greeted by Dr. Mengis and a nurse. The captain stared at them and made for the door, only to have it blocked by the doctor.

"Doctor," Picard said menacingly.

Mengis glanced at deLio. Torn between the whole truth and the knowledge that the captain had shown steady improvement while among the Asili, deLio contemplated, then said, "He has been functional for eight days. Perhaps a brief examination is in order."

Picard turned an accusing glare on him, but stood as Mengis did his duty with tricorder and scanner. "You should be in sickbay, Captain," the doctor announced.

"This mission has gone completely awry, but we may be able to accomplish diplomatic relations with the Asili--I have to be on the bridge. I can be in sickbay after the Game is over."

Again, Mengis glanced at deLio. His shoulders sagged. "And how long will that take?"

"I have no idea. But the Asili are, according to Federation intelligence, the major fighting force of the Randra Alliance! If we could establish amicable ties with them--"

"I understand, Captain," Mengis put in wearily. "But don't forget to show up afterward."

Relieved, the captain strode out of the transporter room. deLio nodded to deOrda in passing and followed the doctor, who showed every intention of going to the bridge as well. Mengis glanced back at him. "And you're not exempt, either. I expect both of you in sickbay as well."

"Actually, if I could be excused, I'd like to go there right now," McGinnis said. "And then go to my quarters. I haven't felt well in days."

She hadn't looked well in days. deLio excused her and continued to follow the captain.

The mock fighting lasted for six more hours. It was very like the war games Starfleet vessels occasionally undertook. Afterward, deLio had barely enough time for a change of uniform and a status report from Lana'hai before the doctor paged him to sickbay. Captain Picard had been taken to sickbay immediately after the Game concluded, almost by force. deLio arrived in sickbay to find the captain gone, but that was a good thing. Mengis didn't say anything about the captain while examining deLio, either.

"Commander Troi seems well," deLio commented as they left together for the reception. The captain had asked the Asili leaders to be their guests.

"She is as well as one could expect," Mengis said. "She had difficulty sleeping and complained of disturbing dreams. We kept her in sickbay for a time. Lieutenant Lindsay reported that the commander dreamed of the Borg."

deLio knew, from the quiet way the doctor spoke, that this was being told in confidence. "You attach significance to this?"

They entered a lift. Mengis smoothed his mustache with his thumb as the car began to move. "Dr. Selar believes that the commander was in contact with the captain. The bond."

"He did seem to hallucinate--when he gained consciousness he often rambled, before the K'korll healer helped him. He said many things neither McGinnis nor I could understand."

"Because it was incoherent, or because you did not recognize the references?"

"The latter." The lift doors opened on deck four.

"In your full report to the commander, please include as much of what he said as you can remember. It may be important."

They entered the forward observation area, which was often used for gatherings of twenty to thirty people. The rest of the senior officers were already present. Deanna stood apart, staring out at the Asili fleet.

The captain arrived last, with the Asili and the two security officers deLio had dispatched to the transporter room to meet them. Picard looked thinner in uniform. Judging from the reactions of the senior officers who hadn't been on the bridge during the Game, deLio had become accustomed to how he looked--Geordi went wide-eyed and Mendez turned too quickly to smile at the Asili.

Only the first mates had come. Four Asili were quite enough for the officers attending, however. The captain welcomed them with the same boisterousness he'd adopted, matching the Asili's energy level and surprising the *Enterprise* officers. After introductions, the crew seemed to take his lead. Counselor Davidson led the way with admirable volume. deLio added the ritualistic baring of teeth in silent greeting.

Dinner was a balance between what the captain knew of the Asili ways and the usual Starfleet buffet style. He must've been giving orders non-stop while in sickbay. deLio watched him closely as he stopped to speak to Commander Troi after introductions were finished. Her body language said discomfort but Picard turned away to speak to Geordi with a smile. deLio made his way across to Troi and they meandered along the buffet together.

"He did not remember?" he murmured.

"The memory loss is not new, then," she replied while examining a platter of fruit. "How extensive?"

"He remembers the mission, up to the point of the explosion. He remembers the ship and some of the crew. He did not remember that Commander Riker had been promoted, nor that Dr. Crusher had left. He knew you were first officer because I told him so."

"Which explains why he behaved normally on the bridge during the battle, but now that we are in a more social situation, he is uncomfortable with me. He didn't recognize Greenman as someone he knew well. What happened that could have caused this loss?"

"The building he was in collapsed on him. His injuries would have been fatal, as the Khevil did not know how to treat a Terran. They sent us to the K'korll, and their healers were able to heal much of the damage, including the dementia. But he didn't know about the crew changes, and he didn't remember he had married and had a son."

Deanna met his eyes, hers large with warning and concern. "What aren't you telling me?"

"I fear the K'korll did deliberate harm. He says they were prying into his thoughts. Lieutenant McGinnis and I both experienced odd sensations and suspicions while there. We escaped in a stolen vessel and were boarded by the Asili, who apparently have a custom for everything and one of them demands they are friends of the enemies of their enemies. The K'korll are their enemies. We have been among the Zekotha for eight days, and they seem to like the captain very much."

"Why didn't you tell him about his family?"

"I am not a counselor. I was afraid to say too much. I have no way of knowing how much damage was done, and did not want to exacerbate it by upsetting him. He already seemed disturbed by the revelation that Riker and Crusher were no longer aboard."

Deanna put a hand on his arm. "Thank you, deLio. Excuse me--I'm going to talk to Dr. Mengis." She took her plate of fruit and headed for the doctor, who spoke to one of the Asili.

Later in the evening, after a ritual swapping of stories and a series of toasts, that Terran custom deLio had to research to understand, Gretha set aside his drink and held out his hands, arms wide. The gesture silenced all in the room and got their attention. "I have something to say."

"By all means," the captain replied, stepping away from Dr. Mengis and the Rekothan first mate.

Gretha looked straight at the captain as he continued, lowering his voice and sounding very unlike the boisterous Zekotha they had come to know. "We have been living in ships since our planet was destroyed in war. We joined the strongest alliance we knew and fought for them as instructed. We were told Starfleet were at war with us." He shook his mane as if punctuating the sentence. "The Randra Alliance did not tell us the truth. We wish your permission to leave our old alliance and move into Federation territory."

The captain, like almost everyone else, stared in shock. Then he stepped forward, smiling. "Thank you, Gretha. We would welcome your people to the Federation. It would be an honor to escort Ze into the Federation to begin working toward this goal. In fact, there are many colonies--if you wished, a suitable world could be found for you."

Deanna jumped when all four Asili threw their heads back and howled. deLio sidestepped between Mengis and Mendez to stand behind her; she faced him, her back to the joyful aliens, and her eyes held fear and shock. But he couldn't ask and she could not say--the Asili had sharp ears. deLio nodded slowly, acknowledging whatever she felt and hoping it would help. She straightened her shoulders, nodded in return, and pulled her lips into a smile as she turned around again.

More toasts, initiated by Gretha and his companions, followed. To all appearances, another successful diplomatic effort. deLio noticed Deanna slip out of the room after the fifth round and wondered what it had cost them.

=@=#=@=#=@=#=@=


	2. Sundering Darkness

* *

Throughout the echoing chambers of my brain  
I hear your words in mournful cadence toll  
Like some slow passing-bell which warns the soul  
Of sundering darkness. Unrelenting, fain  
To batter down resistance, fall again  
Stroke after stroke, insistent diastole,  
The bitter blows of truth, until the whole  
Is hammered into fact made strangely plain.  
Where shall I look for comfort? Not to you.  
Our worlds are drawn apart, our spirit's suns  
Divided, and the light of mine burnt dim.  
Now in the haunted twilight I must do  
Your will. I grasp the cup which over-runs,  
And with my trembling lips I touch the rim.

~ Amy Lowell

 

#########^~

*Contact*

Late, late, late, Picard thought. His body had been mostly numb all evening, but his back had begun to throb and his right thigh ached and stung along the ropy scar twisted around it. Another scar along his abdomen felt tight and itched terribly.

His quarters were right where he'd remembered them to be. The interior smelled oddly, of something he couldn't quite identify, but his things were there. As well as many objects he knew weren't his. He crossed the room to examine a large potted plant with leaves as large as his head. Plants were a bother; were these really his quarters?

Ah. He had a wife. He'd managed to put the idea aside, even though deLio's mention had startled him and Dr. Mengis' comments in the same vein had reminded him. Mengis had asked a series of general questions to test his mental acuity during that brief visit to sickbay, following up on McGinnis' suggestion that he might still have partial amnesia, and because he was in a hurry to put on a uniform and get to the dinner, he didn't confess that he had that amnesia, merely answered 'wife and child' when asked about his family. He'd filed the knowledge as another uncontrollable fact, like having no hair or putting up with the dress uniform. But he was alone now in his quarters with nothing with which to occupy him. Off duty. So now he must confront this wife, whoever she was -- but she didn't appear to be around. Strange. One would suppose a wife, having been uncertain of her husband's fate, would certainly be there to meet him.

Now that idle time allowed, he mused upon the mystery woman's identity. Beverly was off the ship, someone else's CMO. He'd asked Troi in a moment's aside during the reception about her, and Will and Data. Deanna had informed him that Beverly had transferred twice and now served aboard one of the *Enterprise*'s sister ships, the *Venture*. Will had his own ship -- two, in fact, the *Lexington* had been destroyed and succeeded by the *Titan*. Will also had a wife. Data was a first officer, also on the *Venture*, and had tried again to create another android like himself.

Which was all very informative, Picard had said, thanking Troi for the information. To which she had replied cordially, and then added that he might like to know Data's daughter considered him her godfather and would likely call soon for her monthly chat with him. After a moment of mastering himself, he'd asked after his own family and wished he hadn't. It was as though clouds had gone over the sun -- Deanna's polite smile iced over and her eyes dropped for several seconds, then came back up to his lacking emotion.

"You don't remember them?"

"I wish that I did," he had replied, wishing in addition that he could feel something other than trepidation at the thought that they existed.

Deanna had paused too long at that, and then the skittery lieutenant -- Greenman, Natalia, flight control officer, command candidate -- had appeared at Deanna's shoulder and asked permission to be excused. Not his, Deanna's, and the big brown eyes flicked to him and off again like sparks from a force field. Deanna gave the permission. After Greenman left, Deanna set down her nearly-empty glass on a table and excused herself as well, quoting an upset stomach as the reason. The first officer turned away from him and only then did he notice differences -- her hair had been trimmed back from the cascades of curls she'd worn as counselor. Her uniform should have revealed a slender profile, yet her abdominal area in particular seemed rounder than he remembered. Though he made a point not to notice female crew's contours, he did see a difference in her figure overall.

And the ring. She wore a ring on her left hand. A human custom, though. Unless she had married a human, it might mean nothing.

He was more concerned about his own ring. There had been so few he might have considered making matrimony with, and the ones who came immediately to mind would be unlikely to want children. He came at last to the conclusion that this wife must be someone new, someone he had met during the gap between what he remembered and the present, and that he couldn't have known her prior to the breakup of his old senior staff. Someone young enough to have children. Someone who wanted them. Someone who could persuade him that he wanted them, too.

He considered asking the computer who she was, but didn't. He'd remember when he saw her, he expected. Instead, he walked around the room, looking at things, souvenirs and furniture. He picked up a toy from a corner -- a stuffed targ, well-loved from the look of it. The nose looked like it'd suffered from childish mastication.

The door to the right turned out to be the child's room. Picture books, more stuffed toys, a tiny shirt on the floor, a little bed. . . . But no child. Curious. Picard studied the constellations decorating the ceiling, the cast likenesses of a smiling crescent moon and stars on a wall, and wondered what significance the constellation Pisces had.

He tried the next door on the right side of the room and found a smaller bedroom. When the light came up, he froze. From the half-packed cases and their contents and the crib in the corner, he guessed this was a nursery in progress.

A lump in his throat, he crossed the living area to the main bedroom. He startled himself with the volume of his relieved sigh when he found it also empty.

If he had a family, where were they? Then he saw the clutter on the bed. Framed pictures, holo-cubes, knickknacks, the Picard family album, and on the pillow a tented piece of paper. He snatched up the paper and discovered a handwritten note.

I thought it would be easiest to confront this by yourself. Yves and I are in guest quarters on deck seven.

"By myself," he said aloud, breathless. Shoving aside objects, he sat on the edge of the bed and picked up one after the next. A swan -- he recognized the figurine from his mother's collection and wondered why it was here aboard the ship. A yellow duck rattle that quacked. Was there a family obsession about water fowl? A book of poetry by various authors, with tags sticking out. Skimming through the pages told him someone had a preference for e.e. cummings. Finally, ignoring the pictures and holo-cubes for now, he picked up the album. There were new pictures in it. He could tell by the way the pages gapped. The first of them came after the last picture Marie had added; he looked at the family portrait of Robert, Rene and Marie for a moment, then turned the page.

It must have been an unorthodox wedding. She wore an unusual dress in the four pictures. Whoever took them had caught in one of them the moment of the kiss, their lips about to meet.

He inhaled long moments later, but only when he had to. "Oh, bloody hell," he breathed. Inhaled again. Exhaled, with a near-sob. Touched the pictures to reassure himself they were real and flipped the page for more proof that it wasn't a woman who just happened to look like her. Snatched up a holo-cube and turned it on. Grabbed a framed picture. Deanna, with Marie. Deanna with a baby. Deanna in Labarre, in his quarters, lounging near a pool. In what must be a rented room. In the middle of an archeological dig, wearing a thick jacket smeared with dirt and holding a spade, an artifact in the other hand.

Picture after picture of his wife, with and without him. A happy, contented, laughing, affectionate him, depending on which page and what side of the cube and which frame.

"Computer, how long has Deanna Troi been first officer of the *Enterprise*?"

"Four years, nine months, one week, four days."

"How long have we been married?" The album seemed to be sequential. Deanna, in the chateau, looking out the kitchen window with a preoccupied and pleased smile. A candid shot, joined by a few others like it, showing her in the vineyard, in the winery, riding a horse, and then one of the two of them in the village at a cafe.

"Five years, two weeks, three days."

"Five years," he repeated. The next page in the album revealed a trip to Betazed. He imagined it must be, in one picture they stood in a yard with muktoks behind them and Lwaxana standing on Deanna's right, as if using her daughter as a buffer zone. Deanna was obviously pregnant. The following page featured pictures of the baby, of Deanna holding the child, of him holding the child with proud smile in place.

He analyzed the ones of the child. Three years old, at the oldest. He had a three-year-old son. A five-year-old marriage, to one of his officers. A nursery. A first officer gaining weight in a suspicious place. One of the easiest puzzles to piece together, yet one of the most shocking.

"Computer, location of Deanna Troi?"

"Deck seven, section six, cabin four."

He left the clutter on the bed and went out in search of answers, forgetting the hour and his weariness, enduring the pain of his mostly-healed injuries with a practiced forgetfulness as he had for days.

The closed doors awaited him in an empty hall. He reached for the annunciator but couldn't touch it. How would she react to him? What was he supposed to say?

She saved him the trouble of forcing himself to actually touch the panel. The doors opened and she stepped into the gap, looking at him expectantly. Her hair was still clipped back from her face but she wore a royal blue robe that covered her from throat to ankles, her bare feet peeking out. She waited, her eyes wide and filled with mixed emotions.

"Hi," he said.

"Jean-Luc," she replied, tucking her hands into her sleeves. A few uncomfortable moments of mutual study passed before he could shake himself out of it.

"We need to talk," he murmured.

"I suppose we should, then. I just put Yves to bed. Would you like some tea?" She stepped back into the room. He followed, watched her at the replicator between glances at the interior. These rooms lacked the spaciousness and furniture of his quarters; no sofa here, and just a small table between two chairs.

"Something stronger than tea, if you don't mind."

She hesitated then touched a few more keys and turned around with a single glass full of pale amber, bringing it to him. Some sort of ale, he thought.

"I'm sorry," he said, noting that she didn't move away again now that she'd handed off his drink. The light hint of gardenia perfume was perceptible when she stood this close. She had always been beautiful, serene, that hadn't escaped his notice, but this was a different situation -- she had never been interested in him in that way. And now they were married. Such a sudden change, from his point of view. The air between them seemed charged with expectation and emotion. She crossed her arms over her stomach, searching his face with haunted eyes, leaving him wondering what she wanted to find and what he should say next.

"What did you wish to talk to me about?" she murmured.

The spell broken, he sipped his drink without tasting it until the first swallow left an aftertaste on the back of his tongue. "We're married."

She laughed -- or so he thought, until tears gathered on her lashes and fled down her cheeks. The wry twisting of her mouth didn't match the grief in her eyes. "Yes, so I've heard."

"I hoped you could explain. . . ."

She moved around him. "No."

"You don't even know what I was going to ask." He followed her motion, spinning in place, and watched her replicate something else.

"I can't explain why you married me. You can guess the pat answer easily enough. The complicated answers were ones you never shared with me."

"That doesn't sound right."

"Why did you join Starfleet?" She raised the steaming cup of dark liquid to her lips and blew gently. "Why did you leave Jenice behind in Paris instead of going to her and explaining?"

"I -- " He found himself hunting through memory for any time he might have told her about this. Jenice had been aboard once and met her, that was true, but he couldn't remember speaking in such detail with Troi about that. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Why didn't you and Beverly ever do anything about how you felt?"

To that, he couldn't respond. His throat filled with itself and his hand tightened around the glass; a little beer spilled on the back of his fingers.

"What happened to you in Ressik?" she asked, lowering her voice. "What didn't you say when you told me about it?"

He forced a mouthful of the beer down his throat.

"You aren't in the habit of trivializing what you value the most with words," she continued, then drank the rest of her beverage.

"You're my wife," he managed. "I must have decided that was more important to me than anything else. I couldn't manage otherwise -- first officer from counselor?"

She continued to look at him with that undecipherable expression he couldn't decide how to interpret.

"You weren't like this. I don't remember you this way," he murmured.

Finally her expression softened. "I'm not the same, and you weren't, before you went down for that tour. Do you remember the tour on Khevlin? What happened down there?"

"There was a building, a mosaic -- something struck from above. And then I remember bits and pieces of what must be hallucinations, and waking up to find the K'korll and deLio and McGinnis. . . . It's all fragmented. But before the explosion the tour was going well enough. The D'ria had suggested it. There were these statues, made out of bits of ceramic pressed into -- what is it?"

"You remember the mission but not me? Not speaking to me by communicator? Not the staff meeting before you left?"

It was a blank place in his memory of the mission. There were memories, yes, but nothing to indicate her apparent role -- roles -- in his life. His head shook on its own. Sidestepping, he put the unfinished beer on the table.

"Why are you here? In these quarters," he clarified quickly. "You should have said something. I would move out, if you wanted." The offer brought with it a wrenching sort of sadness; it wasn't expected and made little sense to him.

An answering woe glimmered in her eyes wetly. "No. But thank you."

They watched each other again, less wary, considering. She seemed to have very little to say, for a wife seeing her husband again after a dangerous mission. He wondered what she would do if he touched her. He went to find out, taking slow steps and giving her plenty of time to move away.

#########

She couldn't find the bond. There had to be something left of it, how else had she shared his disjointed dreaming while he was off the ship? But he stood right in front of her and still, the ache in the back of her chest persisted, the hollowness, the rawness, as if he were still parsecs away and undetectable.

Deanna let him approach and did her best not to dissolve into tears. His uniform hung too loosely. His face looked different. The ambient pain she'd sensed continued unabated, and came to her more clearly in close proximity. He raised a hand; she closed her eyes as his thumb brushed her cheek, his fingers warm along her jaw.

Not hugging him became her task. Having him here this way sharpened the need to lose herself in the warmth she knew she could find within him. He was a tapestry of emotion and control, contradictions and soft places and jagged edges all layers upon layers in which she could lose herself if she pulled her defenses aside and welcomed him.

His other hand found her other cheek. She swallowed hard and forced herself to not reach with her heart and mind for the husband she missed. Curious, how he could want that role and yet feel the confusion and uncertainty. His exploration of his own emotions continued, though she wondered if he didn't quite realize that was his goal. His breath trickled across her nose and part of her cheek, then she felt his nose brush hers and a light touch of lips on lips.

Then nothing, for a long time. She knew if she looked, she'd find him staring at her and she'd start to cry, but she did it anyway. He had been waiting for her to look, and his intense gaze didn't startle her.

"I'm trying to remember," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I thought if I could touch you. . . . Deanna, I'm so sorry -- "

She collapsed against him. The clumsy way he responded, the uncertain arms around her and discomfort at having a crying woman gripping his uniform, only made it worse. The raw place where the bond had been ached and found no solace in this embrace. Even his body chemistry was off -- his skin smelled sour, as if he'd completely changed his diet. Which, from deLio's brief verbal report to the doctor, he had been forced to do.

"Deanna," he whispered. "I don't know what to do. Those pictures. . . the ones of me made it fairly obvious that I enjoyed having a family. But I don't know how to get it back."

"I don't, either." She had to pull herself away before this became more than she was ready to deal with. "You'll have to talk to the counselor about it in the morning."

He let go of her, but followed her a few steps as she retreated. "I don't see how the counselor could do anything to help me remember you."

"I'll see you on the bridge in the morning, Captain."

He faltered, almost speaking several times but losing the words before they were fully formed. His hand to his forehead, he struggled a while longer, blinking and trying to sort out an answer. "Can I see him?" he whispered finally.

He wanted to see their child, of course he would, but instinct leaped up and sounded the alarm. Protect Yves. She glanced at the closed door to the second bedroom. "It took me forever to get him to sleep. He misses his papa reading his bedtime story for him."

She shouldn't have said it. 'Papa' struck him a blow, shook him up some more. He was trying but it wouldn't work unless he could regain those memories. The truth of it sat in the pit of her stomach like liquid tritanium, viscous, shifting ponderously at room temperature. All the papers she'd read about brain trauma and the varied outcomes of severe injuries such as Mengis had described floated about in the back of her thoughts. She wished sometimes she knew less about the terrible things that could happen to the human mind. Ignorance could be bliss.

His hand closed about her sleeve, barely making actual contact with her arm. "I won't wake him. I just want to see him. Maybe. . . if I could just find the right reminder, maybe. . . ."

She went to the door, her throat tight around another sobbing session in the making. Leaning in, she listened for the soft, slow breathing of her son, then brought the lights up half and moved forward quietly. Jean-Luc came after her and stood over the bed. Yves took up so little room in the adult-sized bed; his thumb had gone in his mouth, as it did when he was sleepy and feeling insecure.

Jean-Luc leaned close. He was tired, too, and the lines in his face seemed deeper in the dim light. She recognized his body language; he couldn't quite commit himself to this, couldn't approach the boy without the trepidation of facing something he feared and had no way to fight. He hovered over the edge of the bed, stared, reached for his son's fine black curls, stopped himself, and left the room without looking at her.

She lingered, watching Yves sleep, and let the silent tears flow once more.

#########

"Something's wrong, isn't it?"

deLio often found himself in the lift with fellow senior officers or ancillary alpha shift bridge crew. This morning, it became a liability. Lieutenant Greenman's question interrupted his silent contemplation of a message from his parents regarding his impending nuptials. Though he was irritated by the disruption of composing his reply, he looked at the lieutenant and reminded himself of proper senior officer behavior, and also of the fact that Natalia was one of his favorites among the security staff. Though he would never tell her, or anyone else, that this was so.

"I do not know what you mean, Lieutenant."

"The captain. He's just not himself." Natalia's wide, concerned brown eyes begged him to confirm it, or reassure her, or both.

"He has survived a traumatic experience. I know that he will need time to heal."

"Is he going on medical leave?"

"Please leave such concerns to the doctor and the counselor."

"But he's my friend, too. So is Commander Troi. She's not supposed to be this tired, and he's not even concerned about her! Something's not right."

"It is not our place to speculate."

"You aren't concerned?"

deLio faced forward, watching the display counting down as they neared the bridge. "I did not say that. It is not our place to intervene. If Commander Troi desires our input, she would certainly ask."

"But if there was something we could do, you'd want to do it. Right?"

"I believe you have already done all you can. The commander must sense your concern, and no doubt she appreciates your willingness to babysit as needed. I see nothing more you could do -- except your duty, as an officer."

The doors opened on the bridge. deLio watched her march to the helm to relieve gamma shift. She seemed to feel obligated to do something when her commanding officers were, in her eyes, needing help.

Commander Troi arrived next, looking mostly normal. She smiled a good morning to deLio on her way down the bridge. She greeted Ward Carlisle, who came out of the aft turbolift to take ops, and took her seat.

deLio initiated the beginning-of-shift level three diagnostic and watched the computer's reports with satisfaction. His department had done well in his absence, in spite of the damage from their battle over Khevlin. He knew the Asili were deadly and cunning in battle. It was a testament to the crew's quick effectiveness that more damage hadn't been done.

Commander Troi studied the reports from beta and gamma shifts, questioned Carlisle for systems status, Greenman for position and speed, deLio for defensive systems and weapons readiness -- the usual procedure. She then contacted engineering for an update on repairs and whether any unusual circumstances had cropped up, such as further equipment failures or shortages. She said nothing about deLio's complete report, which he had sent before reporting to the bridge, but he knew when she saw it. Her head bowed over the display at her right hand and for ten minutes she didn't stir. Then her head came up and her fingers moved over the controls. She'd gone on to the next report. By the time the captain reached the bridge an hour into the shift with guests in tow, she had finished taking account of ship's systems and begun checking staffing arrangements, working as usual from her station on the bridge rather than retreating to her office.

Gretha and Mre had accepted Picard's offer of a ship tour. The two Asili looked out of place on the sterile bridge, which now also seemed crowded; deLio had gotten to know Gretha on his own ship, where disorder was tolerated and the rooms were much larger. Here, in the less populated, sterile environment of a Starfleet vessel, Gretha and Mre seemed larger. They both stood six feet at the shoulder and from the flatness of their manes they weren't comfortable in confined spaces.

"Good morning, Commander deLio," the captain said, approaching tactical first. "Our guests have expressed an interest in our defensive systems. I'd like you to handle that portion of their tour."

"Yes, sir." Before turning to explain the tactical systems in vague ways as he'd done on many a diplomatic occasion, deLio watched the captain smile and promise the Asili he'd meet them later, walk down the bridge, and request Commander Troi's presence in his ready room. Deanna walked at careful attention behind the captain, without looking at anyone on the bridge.

"What do you know about the K'korll?" deLio asked softly, turning to Gretha.

Mre's mane rattled then smoothed. Gretha grimaced, pulling his lips back from his sharp teeth, and an unvoiced growl trembled in his red-furred throat. "You have telepaths in the Federation?"

"There are several telepathic species. Most observe strict privacy practices, either employing some form of shielding or ignoring whatever they can see of non-telepaths' thoughts."

"The K'korll have no such rules. They are a weakling race, however, and for those who cannot be affected by their manipulations they are no threat."

"Are they not part of the Randra Alliance?"

Both Asili stared at him.

"I am not certain I know any more who are part of the Alliance."

"They are," Mre said.

"The Asili are also." deLio made it almost a question, wanting to see their reaction.

Mre growled audibly. Gretha snorted, his quills standing on end around his head, and stomped one foot. "Though we did not wish to say so, we were instructed to take as many of you alive as we could, and we would have been given this ship as our prize. But we have not. We will not. Do you imply we will?"

"I do not. There is no disgrace in duty. You were given incorrect information about the Federation. I am glad that the error was corrected."

"This ship would not have been a good prize, anyway," Gretha grumbled. "Too crowded and small. The Alliance lied to us about that as well."

"It is a fine ship," Mre said. "For smaller beings."

Gretha's nostrils flared. "Of course. A fine ship. Just small."

#########

Admiral Jellico exceeded Laerta's expectations of him. She knew, from studying his career for a couple of hours the same day he'd arrived, that he had as a captain been a diplomat-by-rote, following his marching orders and complying with the military norm. There were captains who excelled out of brilliance and captains who excelled by following orders and appealing to their superiors on an unspectacular level. Command assigned their captains based on the desired goal most of the time. Between that and Eirdna's hinting, she could guess what their goals were in this instance.

Nevertheless, Command had made a mistake. Unless there were some details of which she was not aware, Jellico wasn't going to get very far. He hadn't accomplished much and his expert had managed only to annoy the aliens. Or so she'd heard from Eirdna, when she'd caught him in the restaurant the other night. Jellico had indulged her for all of two days before giving her the final farewell. She no longer cared at that point. If Starfleet wanted Jellico to botch things, he could do it just as well without her. Damn them all -- this could have been a career-making encounter, but she'd sooner sign up for an extended tour on Vulcan in mid-summer than be associated with any fiasco of Jellico's making.

Today, she had to attend the closing ceremony for the Olympics. Then she would be free for a few weeks before the next assignment. She closed her portable computer and tucked it in her baggage. Packing had taken an hour. One more check around the rooms for stray things she'd missed, and she left her suite, pulling the key card through the slot to lock it. It was slightly after seven hundred hours; at seven hundred thirty, her own neglected entourage would meet her at the hotel entrance and they'd all go to breakfast before the games resumed at nine hundred.

"Ambassador!"

She tossed her hair as she turned, wishing now that she'd put it up again. "What, Greyman?"

Tony Greyman had only been with her for a few months, but he had initiative and was willing to pitch in. She'd left a lot of the Olympics events to him since the Asili arrived with her entourage; he'd done well enough. It was good experience for him. She smiled, and his gray eyes lit up with an answering smile.

"I just talked to that little guy, Bisfa? Almost bumped into him at the lift down there." Tony pointed the way he'd come. "He'd like you to come see Bela."

"Just tell him this is the final day of the Olympics and I have appearances to make and things to do, so if. . . ."

Bisfa came around the corner and stood at the end of the hall.

Laerta sighed, grabbed Tony's arm, and turned them both, backs to the little guy. "Find out where Jellico is. Beep me when you locate him." She pulled one of her voluminous thick sleeves aside to show him her personal wrist comm, translating unit, and when she needed one, recorder.

"Right."

Tony hustled the other direction while she went to Bisfa. "Hello, Bisfa," she exclaimed brightly.

"Hello." Was it her imagination or did the shining eyes actually hold pleased relief? Must be a trick of the light. "You have not been with us often since the admiral arrived."

"Well, I tried to explain, he's a Starfleet officer. He has a ship, he'd like to take your delegation -- "

"We have a ship," Bisfa said. "We do not need his. Bela would like to see you." The translator put an imperative tone on the last sentence.

"Let me be honest with you," Laerta said, holding her hands out palms up as if the explanation could be handed to him that way. "I came here to Deneva for the Olympics. The admiral came here just to be with you and Bela and the others. I was your hostess for the amount of time it took for the admiral and his people to travel here. Now I must return to the work I came here to do. I helped the admiral get to know you so he could take over the -- "

"Bela would like to see you," Bisfa exclaimed. "You said you were interested in Bela's culture. You said you wanted to be a friend."

"That's true, I said that, and I consider you my friends." Where had Tony gotten to? Why was Jellico so damned difficult to locate all of a sudden? "But I have responsibilities -- "

The two pale aliens popped around the corner and came toward her, marching in perfect synchronization, and now this was officially weird. "Bela wait," the one on the left said.

"Come, Laerta," the other announced. It held out a hand. When had the little guys started talking so her translator could understand?

Once over the shock of it, she wanted to snap something rude, like maybe 'I only come for tall blondes' or something less oblique, a nice flat refusal. Wouldn't be diplomatic, though. She walked with the aliens, acutely aware that she looked like something out of an old Terran fairy tale, in a high-waisted flowing emerald dress of the latest Centauria-colony fashion, surrounded by attending midgets. Dwarves. Whatever the hell they were called in fairy tales.

Damn Jellico. Gray-haired, square-jawed, growly old admirals were the bane of a diplomat's existence when they meddled in diplomatic endeavors. Laerta's predecessor and mentor, Clia, had told her that once. Except for the part about the hair and the jaw.

The hallway outside the aliens' suite was deserted, as were all hallways leading to it on the top floor, and the closer Laerta got, the more that made sense. The odor, faint until she turned the last corner, struck her across the face, leaving her feeling like she'd been slapped with a rancid beefsteak.

Bisfa and the albino twins scurried out in front of her. She followed, wishing she had thought to get that nose filter she'd packed with her luggage. Today wasn't supposed to involve odiferous aliens indoors.

Another ten steps closer, and the odor changed -- she spun about and almost ran away, but stopped herself after half a dozen paces. Breathing through her mouth, she whirled and strode toward the open door. Captains faced hostile aliens as just one of the possible unknown dangers of space; ambassadors faced hostile alien odors and the unknown details of alien cultures. It was the way it was.

She almost ran into Bela, who stood just inside the open door. The Asili was relaxed, quills at rest, nostrils down to slits on either side of her muzzle. Or that could be because of the smell.

"Where is Jellico?" Laerta asked, quickly, so she wouldn't have to hold her breath long.

"I do not know. Why have you been absent for three days? We have questions," Bela said. While the Asili spoke and the translator filtered, Laerta studied the room in quick glances and saw nothing that might explain the stench. Some meat scraps on a tray on the table near the replicator, but they looked relatively fresh, if raw. The same overdone red decor as in all the hotel rooms clashed with Bela's pelt.

"Whad questions?" Tough trying to talk without inhaling.

"The removal is broken." Bela gestured as she turned. She led Laerta across the room, down a level to the sleeping area -- the bed remained neatly made up, what did they do, sleep hanging from the ceiling? -- and into the immense bathroom.

Laerta hesitated only seconds, sputtered that she'd get someone in to fix it right away, and ran. At the hall door she almost split her lip running into the door frame. She reeled backward, bumped into something, and in the split-second it took to realize what she'd bumped into, claws dug into her arms.

She dangled, feet not touching the floor, shocked and gasping for air. Hot, foul-smelling air blasted her cheek; Bela was sniffing her. Then for some inexplicable reason the Asili slowly set her down on her feet.

The light-headed, dizzy rush Laerta experienced as blood dampened her sleeves and dripped from her fingertips clouded her thinking. She knew she had to think before she acted, that fight-or-flight wasn't appropriate here, but setting aside the instinct proved difficult. Bela could catch her easily -- that had been proved already.

And here came the pale twins, before she could come up with anything, their eyes meeting hers more intensely than ever before. Her legs folded suddenly; landing on her knees, she almost fell forward but caught herself.

"You're eating them," she gasped. "They're not being reassigned. You're slaughtering them!"

One of the aliens looked up at Bela. A long pause -- the only sound in the room was Laerta's rough breathing and a near-subvocal growl from deep in Bela's throat.

"We should leave now," Bisfa said, looking at the twin aliens. "You cannot control the admiral, you said. He will come looking for her. You have her, we leave."

Fear trembled in the pit of Laerta's stomach. Wild leap for the door, her body insisted, and her muscles tensed to make it happen. But she couldn't seem to move. The second pale alien stared at her, its round, cerulean eyes slightly clouded, and she became aware of a sensation her nervous system interpreted as pressure beneath her skull -- telepathy, she thought. It has to be. But it wasn't like any other she'd encountered, and she'd met more than a few telepaths.

"You should not have allowed Bela to kill the man!" Bisfa exclaimed. "Not here. We should leave at once before there are questions."

The growling from Bela increased, then was silenced. The pale alien who'd stared at her -- regained control of her? -- turned to its twin, exchanged a silent moment's regard, and faced Bela.

"We will leave now."

Bisfa snorted. "We should not have come. This was a foolish journey. Underestimating the Federation -- "

In a blur, Bela charged between the pale aliens and Laerta, caught Bisfa up in one paw, and sank her teeth into his shoulder. Laerta's gasps turned to sobs; her eyes would close, at least. Unfortunately, she still heard the spatter of blood and the Asili's growls.

She kept her eyes closed when her body, obeying someone other than her, marched from the room and down the hall to a lift. When a door opened and cold air struck her, she had a brief thought of running for it but again, her body had other ideas.

She opened her eyes as her foot struck something hollow-sounding and sloped. They'd landed a very small ship, a shuttle, in the courtyard of the hotel, between two trees on the edge of the artificial lake. Her feet carried her up the ramp into an overwhelming stench of moldy, wet fur. Another Asili, smaller than Bela but no less intimidating, stood at the top; he peeled back his lips from his fangs in a grotesque parody of a smile.

#########

"Commander," Picard began, narrowly escaping the blunder of calling her 'counselor,' "if I could see you in my ready room?"

She left her post, nodding at Carlisle in passing, and followed Picard to the specified destination. Once inside, she strolled past him to the alcove in the back and played with the replicator. He sat at his desk and noted the pictures in the corner. Family. When she put a cup in front of him, he smiled up at her and received a wavering smile that vanished too quickly in return. This must be an old habit -- she brought him exactly what he would have asked for, and sat across from him with her own beverage, which was a paler and less fragrant brew. Herbal, perhaps.

"How do you feel this morning?" she asked, wrapping her hands around her cup as if they were cold.

"Rested, at least. The doctor said the scars would take time to erase. I suppose you got a copy of his report."

Her lips tightened. Raising the cup, she blew across it and sipped. Made a face as if she'd forgotten to sweeten it. "Yes. You'll be getting a visit from Counselor Davidson soon. Dr. Mengis would like to see you again; evidently you rushed him and he would prefer a more thorough examination than he was able to perform last night."

A surge of anger came out of nowhere. He glanced at the pictures, at her, and his eyes fell to her abdomen, the odd burst of emotion fading. "How far along?"

Her eyes became pools of suffering. "Almost five months. Her name is Amy."

It pushed him down in his seat. He almost dropped the tea, managed instead to put it on the desk, and swallowed. A baby, already named. A daughter. Visions of Ressik replayed in his head, memories of taking Meribor to the playground where all the other Ressikan children played, of her following him around the hills on one of his jaunts into the wilderness, her little boots marching along in his footsteps and her choice of walking stick in hand.

"Captain?"

Troi's soft summons brought him out of it. Blinking, he refocused his attention. "Sorry. I was just thinking -- "

" -- of Meribor."

He blinked again and leaned forward, arms crossed on the edge of the desk. "You read thoughts these days?"

A corner of her mouth twitched. "No. I'm simply very familiar with certain patterns of emotion from you. Kataan will always be with you. So will other experiences with far less positive outcomes. Does it please you that you have children?"

She'd caught him between roles -- she sounded like Counselor Troi, yet she was first officer and also the mother of those children. "Yes," he exclaimed, sounding forced, "actually it does. And that you -- " He stopped when she held up a hand.

"Your wife will be happy to hear that, no doubt," she said.

"My wife," he blurted, guffawing incredulously. "My -- "

"If she were here, she might like to point out that you're on duty, however. She does make a point of staying out of the way until you're off."

"Oh. Yes, I can see why she would want to. Do you suppose she might be willing to show up for dinner tonight?"

An amused smile was his reward. "If I see her, I'll tell her you wanted to know."

"Does this get easier? I did manage to get used to it. Didn't I?"

"Now that we're no longer an experiment and no longer the stuff of headlines and gossip rags, we have officers come aboard quite unaware of it, and they often don't find out for weeks. The Federation does not, after all, revolve around our private lives. Or our professional lives, for that matter." She sipped tea and glanced at his, which reminded him it was still there. "You did manage, long before the infamy died away, to balance the roles we have taken."

His tea had cooled somewhat. Putting it aside, he nodded once. Time to get back to work. The rest could be worked out later. "What's your impression of the Asili? I see from the reports that you engaged them in battle, and that they apparently attacked a colony in Federation space."

She drank slowly, paying more attention to her tea than to him. "They remind me in many ways of the Klingons."

"It's fortunate that I ran across them and managed to befriend them."

"Yes."

"I see we're on course for the nearest starbase. Once we're back in Federation space I'll contact Command with a full report on. . . . Are you all right?"

She had put her tea on the edge of his desk and gone still, hands on the arms of her chair. "I'm fine, sir."

"Morning sickness?"

"If there's nothing else, Captain, I have work to do. The crises we have been facing interrupted many scheduled events, and I have my own reports to prepare for you prior to your report." Halfway through she was on her feet and crossing the room.

"Answer the question, Deanna. You look like hell. The doctor -- "

She stopped walking, turned around, and said, "One of my tasks for this morning will be speaking to Dr. Mengis regarding your condition. I'll ask for a remedy for nausea at that time. I do not allow morning sickness to interfere with my duties. If there's nothing else?"

"What about my condition?"

She looked at him directly, but without the friendly affection of mere moments before. He wasn't accustomed to getting that kind of look from her.

"If you cannot remember your own wife -- "

"I can go to the doctor on my own. I don't need you to go on my behalf." He'd never been that short with her before, that he could remember, but the hardness in her face and the knives of her words hurt. And for some reason he felt angrier than he thought the occasion deserved.

"Then you'll report to sickbay on your own?" she replied stiffly, looking down at him as if she were in charge and he the recalcitrant ensign.

"Commander -- "

"You didn't tell him about the amnesia last night when you were in sickbay. You evaded his questions. There is sufficient reason for suspicion -- regulations dictate that I exercise caution when there is evidence that my commanding officer has come under alien influence to uncertain ends -- "

"Enough!" He was on his feet before he caught himself. "I'll go to sickbay if you go. Now."

The feeble attempt failed miserably. He realized, now that she stood in partial profile half-turned for the door, that it wasn't just the pregnancy -- her posture had been altered, her shoulders square, not a counselor's relaxed demeanor any more. "Conditional cooperation gives me further cause for suspicion. Lieutenant-Commander deLio believes the K'korll were attempting to manipulate the three of you. McGinnis has already reported to sickbay of her own volition for a thorough examination, and deLio will report to Dr. Mengis as well. Your resistance -- "

"It isn't resistance! I feel fine. I intended to go in when I'd finished the tour with the Asili."

She headed for the door. "If you say so, Captain."

"Commander!"

"Sir?" She stood at attention, hands behind her back, and gazed at him evenly through her lashes.

"We've worked together for years. Certainly you of all people should be able to tell that I'm fine, not under anyone else's control." He came around the desk and approached her slowly, hands flat and held out as if he approached an alien species who might misunderstand his body language.

Their eyes met. Long moments of frustration and anger passed; he took another step and was within inches of bumping into her. The bulge in her uniform between them caught his attention. He set aside the urge to touch it, and with it went the sudden anger he couldn't explain.

A frown creased her forehead. "Sickbay?"

"Yes. Please."

#########

Deanna left sickbay before he did. Now that she didn't feel the nausea, thanks to the inhibitor to filter the anxieties of those around her, she had things to do and couldn't wait for him. After Dr. Mengis had heard the full list of his symptoms, such a list of tests had been prescribed that she knew Jean-Luc would be in sickbay most of the morning.

She walked through engineering and reassured Geordi, who had been worried enough about the captain that he'd called her last night after the dinner party was over. Now that he knew the captain was undergoing a full battery of tests, he felt better. From there she went to see Guinan.

The hostess of Ten Forward was in her quarters; she wouldn't be on duty until lunch. She didn't smile and invited Deanna inside, two things that said she already knew this was serious. Deanna refused a beverage and sat with Guinan on her standard-issue sofa.

"He isn't good, is he?"

"It's as though I was selectively removed from his thoughts. Yves, too. But why would anyone do that to him? I could understand strategic information, tactical plans, Starfleet-related things, but this?"

Guinan folded her hands in her lap and considered. While waiting, Deanna took the opportunity to borrow on the El-Aurian's calm. Guinan was an oasis, a welcome change from the turbulence around her.

"You said Selar suspected interference from a telepath had severed the bond," Guinan said at last. "Perhaps he was being probed for more practical information, and the severing was a byproduct of it."

"Or an accident," Deanna mused.

"As I recall, your bond was something that occurred without conscious effort. Would it happen again, given time?"

Deanna's hand went to her abdomen. "I don't know. So much of it depends on him. He's not the same, Guinan. I'm very afraid of the changes in him. The anger. . . . And deLio's report disturbs me. Some of the things Jean-Luc went through. . . ."

"You have to stop fretting and relax." Guinan gripped her arm. Something about that seemed to ground her. "If it's going to happen, or if he's going to remember, your worry and fear won't help."

She stayed a while longer, needing to be peaceful, using Guinan's calm the way she had once used Jean-Luc's. Focusing on her wasn't difficult but it took conscious effort; she had no bond with which to channel her efforts or Guinan's emotions. Guinan sat with her in silence.

The hostess had always had her own share of empathy, though Deanna suspected it to be less focused and broader in scope. Guinan often sensed things Deanna couldn't, and not always from organic life forms. Sometimes she even showed precognitive ability. In the early stages of her own relationship with him, Deanna had wondered about the nature of Guinan's relationship with the captain, but though she was no closer to understanding it, she at least understood that she need not feel threatened by it.

"Thank you," Deanna said at length.

"You're welcome. Let me know if I can help either of you."

"You do more than enough already."

Guinan smiled, creasing her forehead and making a 'shoo' gesture with one hand. "Babysitting is nothing. Yves is no trouble at all and I never see my own grandchildren, so it's my pleasure."

Deanna smiled, almost asked about the children whose names Guinan had never given and hardly ever mentioned at all, but nodded and made her exit instead.

The lift she rode toward the bridge stopped for another passenger. Natalia Greenman stepped in, the doors closed, and the car hummed into motion. Natalia's eyes found Deanna's and asked questions she wouldn't voice.

"It's not going to be easy, Nat," Deanna murmured.

"Can I help?" With it came waves of concern, of sympathetic hurt, and Deanna wished for the calm of Guinan -- Natalia's affection and admiration for her captain remained a constant. It had kept her here when other postings had opened elsewhere. Her wide eyes held unshed tears. "Anything I can do. Anything."

"It would be best if we left this to the counselor and the doctor," Deanna said. "I'm sorry, Nat. But I'll let you know if the situation changes. In the meantime, I do still need a babysitter on-call for beta shift."

They rode to the bridge while Deanna contemplated saying more. Perhaps urging her to consider transfer -- perhaps the ship about to be commissioned, the *Surak*, which would be embarking upon a long exploratory tour of duty the following year. The chief tactical officer had sent Deanna a note; she'd been aboard the *Enterprise* before and transferred after promotion, and wanted to know if there were any bright young *Enterprise* officers about to get another pip who might transfer. Nat might not want to go until after the captain was well, but it would be a good career move.

Deanna considered, as she went to her chair on the bridge, how she would reason with Natalia to get the lieutenant to consider the transfer. The one thing she would not mention -- how much easier it was to function in a crisis when one had minimal emotional ties to the officers at risk. She suspected that would put an abrupt end to any consideration Natalia might give the idea. Like her chosen role model, Nat rarely chose the easy solutions.

Taking stock of the situation, Deanna went into the ready room and called McGinnis to the bridge. The lieutenant arrived in uniform nearly ten minutes later; Deanna remembered just in time that she'd opted for a couple days of leave and the doctor had seconded it, and decided not to chide the woman for taking so long. She looked unwell -- Deanna noticed dark smudges under her eyes and a looseness of the uniform only after McGinnis went into parade rest.

"Sit, please. Something to drink, Lieutenant?"

McGinnis dropped into a chair and sat stiffly at attention. "No thank you, sir."

Deanna ignored the lieutenant's brief stare at her abdomen. "In your report, you seemed upset about the captain's -- Lieutenant?"

McGinnis jerked and blinked. "Sorry, sir."

"That's our son," Deanna said, nodding toward the picture on the corner of the desk McGinnis had been staring at. "Yves."

"Yes. I mean, I've found out since -- I didn't know when I came aboard that he was married to you, and now it seems so obvious -- I should have known."

"Is this why you were upset when he hallucinated and called out for me?"

McGinnis bowed her head, brow wrinkling. "I thought that I was hearing things he kept to himself. Inappropriate things. I didn't realize -- it's not something they encourage. I didn't want to hear it because -- well, he's Captain Picard. Who would think. . . . I'm sorry, sir."

"Who would think that Captain Picard would indulge in fraternization when it's so obviously counter-indicated by the nature of our duties?"

"I'm sorry, sir." McGinnis fidgeted, straightened again, and looked unseeingly at her first officer.

Deanna forced a slight smile. "No need to apologize. It is not widely advertised, after all. It normally doesn't become an issue, and it isn't relevant to the situation at hand. I'd like to hear your report first-hand, so we can discuss certain aspects of it. Any details you might remember would be a great help."

#########

deLio took Gretha and Mre on the rest of the ship tour when the captain failed to reappear, not commenting on his absence, but as they approached the transporter room Gretha asked what had happened to him.

"Computer, where is Captain Picard?"

"Captain Picard is in sickbay."

Immediately, Gretha's mane rose. "He has been injured?"

"It is more likely he is being examined in more depth than he was last night. Our standard procedure after a dangerous mission includes a thorough medical examination, especially after one has sustained serious injury."

"He does not appear injured," Mre said.

"The K'korll healed most of the damage."

"You allowed the K'korll to work on him?" Gretha exclaimed, more alarmed than before.

"We had little choice. He would have died."

"Better to be dead," Mre spat.

"Our medical personnel are quite thorough. If the K'korll have harmed him, we will be able to help him."

Neither Mre nor Gretha seemed reassured by this; they rattled quills and said nothing more. deLio had nothing else with which to reassure them, and saw them off with no further comment. There was nothing more to say, especially since he feared the Asili were correct.

"Computer, location of Dr. Mengis."

"Dr. Mengis is in Ten Forward."

It was time for lunch, and Mengis usually ate in Ten Forward. When deLio arrived, he found the doctor and the counselor sitting together with plates of untouched food on the table between them. He sat with them and added a third plate to the table. Davidson glanced at Mengis, then back at deLio.

"I do not believe the captain should return to duty," deLio said softly, too aware that they could easily be overheard.

Davidson smiled -- odd that humans used that expression for anything and everything, but Deanna had once explained that not all smiles were indicative of happiness, some were tension-relievers, others masks to hide less positive emotions -- and nodded. "I was going to ask you to come by my office after lunch. I'm supposed to assess your condition. Ask you about what happened over the past couple of weeks. Particularly what happened while you were among the K'korll."

"I understand. But they did not affect me, only the captain. L'norim are not susceptible to -- " But he had been able to hear them when they communicated telepathically, and he had had dreams. He could not prove there had been no interference as well.

"Which is what concerns us," Mengis said, smoothing his mustache repeatedly with a knuckle. That was an old habit of his, and deLio had come to recognize it as a gesture he used in stressful situations. "The K'korll are obviously not like telepaths with which we are familiar. The captain's injuries should have been fatal, under the circumstances."

"The captain's mental state has improved markedly since we left the K'korll. His memory should return, should it not? Counselor, you said that such amnesia is common after traumatic situations."

Davidson nodded but did not smile this time. Picking up his fork, he poked a lump of meat. "I did say that. That's not our main concern at this time, however."

"Then why -- " deLio clenched both hands into fists. He relaxed them at once, glad that he had kept them out of sight beneath the table. "You believe the K'korll have taken control of him. Or conditioned him to do -- what?"

Again, the exchange of glances between the two humans. "You mentioned in your logs that you worried the K'korll might have been seeking information in the minds of the away team," Mengis murmured, lips barely visible beneath the black brush of his mustache. His hard green eyes shifted left, watching an ensign carry a tray of dishes past them. "Commander Troi is worried that they may have done more than that."

"It's possible to brainwash a human in ways that make him completely unaware of what he's doing," Davidson said. "It's happened to Geordi, in fact. It almost happened to the captain some time ago. And it would be so simple for telepaths who have the skill to heal so extensively to reprogram part of his brain to contain detailed instructions. Or so we think -- we can't tell. We don't know what to look for."

"Until we know whether or not the captain is under external influence, we can only watch and wait," Mengis continued. "Commander Troi would have spoken to you this morning herself if you had not been with the Asili."

"I will instruct my officers to -- "

Davidson put a hand on deLio's arm. "Let Troi worry about it. I'm afraid you're now quietly off duty until we've all gone to sickbay and talked this through."

deLio almost protested. He looked from Davidson to Mengis, considered all they had said about the captain, and recognized the seriousness of the situation. This 'brainwashing' they described was not possible with L'norim. Their brain function and structure differed significantly from human norms.

Still, good security meant objectively pursuing certainties where questions existed. Given the nature of the K'korll's abilities, and how little was known about their extent, this was logical. The doctor and counselor were only doing their jobs.

"We should go now. I can only be effective as security chief if I am not a risk myself."

#########

Deanna waited outside his quarters when he arrived after alpha shift. In her arms was the boy, awake and playing with a toy. Picard strode forward boldly, not allowing his steps to falter. He had faced down Dr. Mengis and his batteries of tests, the counselor and his questions, and spent the afternoon reviewing logs and catching up on what had happened in his absence. Now he had to begin again, with his personal life. At least with his job he had the logs to help.

Yves noticed him when he was almost within arm's reach. "Papa!" The three-year-old reached for him, smiling, the toy falling to the carpet.

Picard picked up the small stuffed bear. "Thank you for coming," he said, meeting Deanna's gaze and reaching for his son. He thought he managed well, considering; the transition was somewhat awkward, but Yves came to him willingly, throwing his little arms around his neck. The wetness of the child's kiss made him wince.

Deanna's expression went cold. But she said, "What would you like for dinner?" and turned for the door.

He tried to make conversation, but she refused to answer work-related questions, and no matter what else he brought up, she thwarted discussions with closed answers and distractions. They ate, but he didn't taste his food. Perhaps this was too much too soon. She probably thought so, but he hoped she gave him credit for trying, at least.

Yves mashed and played with his food, the most cheerful person at the table. He was unmistakably *their* child. His eyes were his father's, not Betazoid black, but his hair was Deanna's. His infectious smile kept catching Picard off guard. His limbs were in constant motion; alternately, he tried to escape the confines of his seat or push the tray away, shoved the plate around, drank from the lidded cup with its spill-proof lid, and commented at random.

"Look, Papa," he cried for the dozenth time, holding up his spoon.

"Yes, I see."

"Poon, Papa! I gotta poon!"

"Spoon," Picard corrected gently.

"It's conbex, see? It's like a mirrow. See? It shows you face upsi' don."

Picard glanced at Deanna for help. She kept picking up vegetables with her fork, but said, "He's trying to tell you it's convex and you can see your face in it like a mirror. You taught him that before you left."

Picard smiled, his fork drifting lower in his inattention, and tried not being irritated at her amusement. But she wasn't as amused as he expected. Yves dropped the spoon, causing a clatter that distracted both his parents. "Sssspoooon," he said breathily, looking at Picard.

"Yves," Deanna said, waiting for him to turn to her, "use your spoon to eat. It's time to eat."

She watched the boy put pieces of carrot in the spoon with his fingers one at a time, aim it at his mouth, and get two pieces in while the rest tumbled down his shirt, to land in his lap and be mashed. Yves started over, picking up the pieces he'd dropped and putting them back in the spoon as he murmured something Picard didn't recognize right away. He realized that it must be counting - Yves said each word as he dropped a carrot in the spoon or pointed to one on the plate. Yves aimed for his mouth, got a few pieces in, and again, the remainder tumbled down to the plate. He started counting again, and finally, Picard recognized that half the words were in mangled French.

"Quatre," he said. Yves looked up at him, surprised and distracted from the counting by the correction.

"Bejidai," he exclaimed, grinning and whacking his spoon on the edge of the plate.

"Cinq," Deanna said in French. "Six."

"Sik!" Yves said, laughing and dropping the spoon. "Bejidai!"

"You skipped five," Deanna said.

Yves laughed again, looking from one of his parents to the other, then put his finger and thumb in his mouth and stared at Picard. What did the boy want? Why the sudden pinch of distress between the boy's wide eyes? Yves looked at Deanna, then back at Picard.

"Papa?" he said, leaning toward his father.

"Why don't you try using your fork? To pick up the carrots. It might be easier."

Yves considered, put the spoon beside his plate, and wrapped his fingers around the fork handle, holding it up as if looking for his reflection in the tines. Pulling his fingers from his mouth, he held down the plate and jabbed the fork at the pieces of carrot. One chunk stuck to a tine; Yves studied it seriously.

"Finish eating your dinner, Yves," Deanna said, weariness replacing the affection and good humor Yves' antics had caused. She glanced at Picard. Seeing the reproach in her eyes, Picard also returned to eating, wondering what had just happened. He'd obviously missed a cue of some kind, part of whatever game they'd made of counting in three languages. Yves picked up pieces of carrot and pushed them on the fork, popping every third or fourth piece into his mouth. Once the tines were covered with carrot bits he abandoned the fork and picked up the spoon again.

After dinner, once the table was cleared, Picard was at loose ends until Deanna set the example. He supposed she must be doing what she usually did in the evening - taking a padd to the sofa after instructing Yves to get a toy to play with. The toddler raced to his room eagerly. Picard noted Deanna's glance his way and shrugged.

"You could play a game with Yves," she said. "There's ensemble practice, but I don't know if you want to attempt it."

"No, I wouldn't. Not yet, anyway." He went after the child, knowing his nervousness was obvious to her. At least the boy couldn't sense his emotions the way she could.

Yves was contemplating the contents of his toy box; he turned and smiled when Picard came in. The joy in his face waned the longer the silence went on, however. Picard spurred himself from his momentary discomfiture and approached the boy slowly.

"What are we going to do here?"

Yves hurried to a short bookcase and yanked a book free, several others tumbling to the floor in its wake. "Bulcan tem to cwass." He dropped to his knees on the floor, placed the book in front of him, and opened it.

Picard considered this and took a seat on the end of the little bed. Yves adapted without complaint, running over and climbing in his papa's lap, bringing the book. He nudged and bumped and finally settled with his feet sticking out over papa's knees and the book in his lap.

"Win a bulcan tem to cwass," he announced, pointing at the page upon which the title, "The Day a Vulcan Came to Class" was written in bold red letters over a sketch of many children sitting at desks facing an adult and a young Vulcan.

Yves 'read' to him, altering details as he obviously repeated the story from memory. Picard tried to match the mangled words with the text. He became brave enough to put an arm around the child to keep him from wriggling off by accident; Yves changed position often and didn't seem too concerned about the consequences. Picard listened to the child's voice tell him how the children met the Vulcan boy and learned a simplified version of IDIC.

"Is this your favorite story?" he asked when Yves clapped the covers shut. The pages were dog-eared and the cover stained.

"Yup. You weed it now." Yves wiggled and pushed the book into papa's hand.

"Me? But you did so well."

"Pwease weed the stowwy, Papa," Yves said, sounding disapproving.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather play a game, or. . . read a different book?"

Yves wiggled until he could look up at Picard's face. Thankfully, Deanna came in just then. She touched the back of Yves' head. "Time for bath. Get your pajamas."

Yves slid down, dropping the book to the floor, and grabbed her pants leg. "Papa's sad," he exclaimed, big-eyed and sounding sad himself.

Deanna dropped to one knee. "Don't worry, petit, Papa had a hard day. He'll be better. Get your pajamas and bath toys."

Yves went to the dresser opposite the bed and pulled out shirt and pants from the bottom drawer, tossed them in a nearby bucket, and began poking around a scattering of toys on the floor. Deanna came to Picard and touched his shoulder. "Come with me."

He followed her numbly. She took off her jacket, dropped it on the back of a chair in their bedroom, and in the bathroom she leaned to adjust the water controls on the bathtub.

"You can be happy about him. He's your son," she murmured.

Picard stared at her back, her narrow shoulders sloping from the sleeveless gray shirt, her neck obscured in black curls. "It's been a long time."

She hesitated, looking down into the tub, then glanced at him out of the tail of her eye; her head turned slightly as she did so.

"I never thought. . . ." He couldn't finish. All he could think about were the only other children he'd known as toddlers, the fictitious children of Kamin, and by association he thought of their mother. He would never be able to have a family on the ship, he'd accepted that, and this mundane sequence of events had taken on a surreal quality. This would surely prove itself to be a dream, or a hallucination.

Except Deanna Troi now faced him with her hands on her hips. "This isn't going to go away, Jean-Luc. You're not going to wake up and find you've imagined it."

He snorted. "You really have taken to reading minds."

She smiled, lips tight, and leaned to turn on the water. "The reversal did strike me as rather ironic. The captain dreams of a family he swears he'll never have, then later has a family he dreams he doesn't have." She closed the distance between them, the water tumbling into the tub behind her. "But I'm not going to go away in half an hour."

"Promise?" When her eyes widened, he realized that this slight humor was misplaced, and a poor attempt on his part to have something, anything to say. "I suppose I shouldn't feel badly about my discomfort, because of my condition. Still, he obviously expects certain things that I'm having difficulty providing."

She nodded. Behind her the water shut itself off, leaving the tub only filled part way. In the quiet he heard Yves singing from the other end of their quarters. He remembered the weight of his son in his lap, the way Yves had leaned against him, head bumping his papa's chin. The softness of his hair, the tiny fingernails on tiny fingers, the words from a still-forming mouth. The small-voiced assessment of Papa's mood.

He took four steps, leaned, and kissed Deanna's cheek, catching a whiff of her perfume as he pulled away. "Thank you for coming tonight."

A warm smile, the first she'd given him, and her hand around his were his reward for it. "I know this isn't comfortable for you. You're doing very well, considering."

He glanced down at her fingers across his palm, trying to remember the last time someone had taken his hand.

"Jean," she said, tightening her grip. "Perhaps Yves and I should go."

"No, you shouldn't." Now he gripped her fingers. "You belong. . . . Both of you belong here."

"I know, but if you feel -- "

"Ignore how I feel. What I've forgotten doesn't make us any less a family, and if I'm to get any of what I was back, I've got to keep trying -- right?"

Yves came in at last, his bucket full of toys swaying and bumping as he struggled to carry it. He took it to the tub, dropped the load, and began throwing toys into the water in a clumsy overhand, the first item shooting over and to the side to bounce across the floor. The second went in the water after bouncing off the faucet.

"Come here, petit," Deanna said, bending and tugging Yves over to her by the arm. "Let's do this." She took the toys two at a time and dropped them over the side, tossing the pajamas at the counter. The bucket went in last, then she picked up the naked little boy and swung him up and over, placing him amongst the floating toys. She straightened, hands on her back, and moved her shoulders stiffly.

"Get da soap, Papa," Yves called. His shrill voice rang loud in the bathroom.

"It's on the counter, the blue squirt bottle," Deanna said as she sat on the edge of the tub and reached for a sponge. "Here's your duck. Tell me a story about a duck."

Picard turned to the countertop behind him, found the bottle near a vase with a single blossom in it, and brought it with him as he joined Deanna. He noticed her glance at the flower sadly; before he could react, she hid the emotion and turned a happy smile on her son, still pontificating on the abilities of a duck while she washed him with a soapy duck-shaped sponge.

#########

Deanna sank down on the stool, the bucket of toys at her feet. Bath time was fun for Yves but a lot of bending for her. They had started using the bigger tub in the main bath because he tended to fill the little one in the second bathroom with too many boats, animals and bubbles, and in the larger tub only filled partway they could use the brightly-colored liquid soap to play the alphabet game. After drying and dressing him, Jean-Luc had taken Yves to put him to bed. At least tonight he would have that much normalcy.

Yves had splashed her thoroughly, as she'd known he would, which was why she'd taken off the jacket before the bath began. Her sleeveless undershirt clung to her like a second skin. She took her time rinsing the lopsided E's and Y's from the side of the tub, straightening often, and sensed when Yves finally went to sleep. She was slowly rising with a hand to her back when Jean-Luc returned.

"He went right down," he said, appearing in the door. "Said he liked being back in his own room. I think. It's hard to tell what he's saying, sometimes. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, just tired. My back hurts a bit from all the bending. I'll just go down and meet with Geordi, and this day will finally be over." She had talked with him over Yves' singing and splashing about the repairs to the ship, mostly to break up the bouts of discomfort and irritation Jean-Luc felt over their child's behavior and his inability to cope.

"You're sure you have to review those repairs tonight? Couldn't he just talk to you over a comm link?" He came around the tub as he spoke.

"I'd rather see for myself. My responsibility, you know."

"I could go." Jean-Luc touched her back, hesitant but sure enough of himself to come this close and be so intimate. She managed to simultaneously want to retreat and to hug him, but refrained from either. He rubbed along her spine through the driest part of her undershirt. When the heel of Jean-Luc's hand pressed into the sore spot, she groaned. Amnesia or no, he could still find that spot.

"Or it could be put off until morning," he murmured.

It startled her out of the stupor -- she opened her eyes and stepped away from him. "It won't take long. There will be other distractions in the morning. I should do it now, before I forget."

"You'll come back," he said, with very little question about it.

She hoped her fear didn't flare in her eyes like a beacon. "I'll think about it."

Putting a playful note in the statement and forcing a smile seemed to do the trick. She left him in the bathroom, got a new shirt, changed quickly, fastened on the jacket, and hurried out without looking back. She knew from his mood that he'd begun to think in directions he hadn't gone until just now. And she hesitated at the door, considering snatching up her sleeping boy and fleeing with him, but left with empty arms.

Too many things to worry about. Too many decisions to make with very little to base them on. Taking Yves would be a risk. Leaving him would be a risk, but only if something else triggered a change in Jean-Luc. Hopefully being left alone would prevent that.

"Troi to transporter room."

"Ripley here, sir."

"I want you to lock on to my son's transponder and keep a lock on him. It's a standing order, make sure your relief knows about it."

"Aye, sir."

The subdermal transponder had been one of her better ideas, born of a single incident in which Yves had crawled off under tables and chairs at an event and given her a panic attack by climbing in a cabinet and falling asleep, effectively disappearing for the better part of an hour. She hated that it had to be used this way, but Jean-Luc wasn't himself, and she had reason to wonder if his symptoms might be more than the result of trauma.

On her way to her scheduled meeting, she mused again over her situation. Jean-Luc's sudden generous offer to the Asili made no sense. They had been sent to Khevlin, Starfleet had intelligence, however scant, on the Khevlin, but they were unprepared to make diplomatic overtures to the Asili. In this case, Command should definitely have been consulted.

The Asili coming along just in time to rescue a small vessel seemed suspect; space was a big, big place, and for people who were afraid of the K'korll, cruising through regions where K'korll might be found seemed unlikely. Add in their odd behavior, attacks on Khevlin then on a Federation colony, and their motives grew murkier still.

Then Jean-Luc had been returned, along with the other two surviving officers. It became the most puzzling piece of the picture. Because returning people alive and apparently well could be as they claimed, the logical followup to the realization of a mistake, but how realistic was it to believe that a species who had served the Alliance all their lives would suddenly turn their backs on said Alliance and leave? An entire species, nomadic, living in ships -- although it had not been made plain that this large fleet *was* the entire species -- suddenly altering the collective consensus and changing allegiance without a single individual protesting.

Jean-Luc wasn't himself. It was her entire problem. Upon that hinged all the rest of the oddities, she believed, as it seemed too coincidental -- if she could discover the motivation behind his being sent to the K'korll and then returned, the rest might make sense.

Until then, she was left wanting to trust him but knowing she shouldn't. Their meeting in the ready room confused her. His fleeting anger corresponded with nothing, made no sense, and had been absent for the remainder of the day. Though she hadn't seen him since sickbay, she had kept track of his emotions all along, on the alert for any abnormalities. deLio's report detailed disturbing ravings about Borg, gulls, even snippets of plays and names from the past -- Jack Crusher, Beverly, and others.

Dr. Mengis recommended medical leave. So did Counselor Davidson. Deanna knew what Jean-Luc's reaction would be to that, were he entirely himself, but couldn't predict it under the circumstances. Was his assertion that the K'korll were delving into his brain for information true? Worse, had he been turned into a tool for the Randra Alliance? The possibility was there. Regulations and protocols suggested incarceration and further testing. Yet the *Enterprise* was surrounded on all sides by Asili -- if they were part of a devious plan it would be likely any action against Jean-Luc would end in violence.

Geordi waited for her in the shuttle bay aboard *Flying Fish* as planned, along with Dr. Mengis and Ward. deLio was there as well, she noted with grim satisfaction. The *Fish* wasn't a Starfleet vessel, but a former cargo ship converted for private use. She'd purchased it herself, registering it to the Fifth House, for several reasons. Now it would make a neutral meeting place, where they knew they wouldn't be overheard by the crew.

The others had gathered in the main compartment, a former cargo hold redesigned to be a comfortable living area in the cylindrical main hull. Smaller rooms had been created around its perimeter, but there was still enough room in the center for a table, chairs, and along a solid wall at the rear, a curved dark-blue sofa that matched the carpeting.

No one was sitting. She joined them, standing in the open area before the sofa, and noticed in passing that the stain on the carpet, a result of grape juice spilled during the *Fish*'s last journey several months before, was still there. She'd forgotten to send in a cleaning crew.

Mengis held out a padd. "I've isolated a brain wave pattern that I believe is the result of the K'korll's activities."

"But is it something that indicates healing or trauma?"

"I couldn't say." Gregory didn't look happy about it. "It's a typical marker for telepathic interference in a human brain. I couldn't qualify it as good or bad. It's obvious from the scans that there was considerable damage done to his skull. Upon close examination of the structure of the bones of the skull, even as far down as the sphenoid sinus, I discovered indications of hairline fractures. In the brain itself I've found some bruising, some abnormalities, but nothing like the damage I would imagine had occurred if it were as damaged as the changes in the bone would indicate. Within the frontal lobes, there is an increase in activity from previous scans taken during his last physical. The occipital and temporal lobes appear normal, but they also appear to function differently; there are new pathways forming, but that may be the healing brain re-routing to compensate for damage."

"But there is still damage," she said, thinking about the ramifications. "Most of it centered in the prefrontal lobes." Where personality and many higher functions resided, behavioral and emotional controls included. "He compensates quickly, but there is a mild aphasia, undifferentiated and asymptomatic. Particularly when he is trying to express emotion. Counselor Davidson mentioned one instance, but I've noticed several occasions. There's also an odd lingering sensation of pain that's faded but is still present -- I can sense it. Has he mentioned any of these things to you?"

Gregory frowned. "It's unlike him to conceal such information."

"Yes and no. He knows that he's been severely injured. He knows how critical a situation we've been sent into -- he must know on some level that he's still suffering from his injuries, and that we're trying to learn more about what's wrong. I wonder, however, whether his resistance is due to obedience to instructions, or to his tendency to strive for control, of himself and of his circumstances."

"So even with all this information, we *still* can't tell if he's been brainwashed," Geordi exclaimed.

"Or if this is collateral damage." Everyone looked askance at her, so Deanna continued. "These K'korll have never seen a human before, that we know of -- if Geordi were to come across an Asili vessel and faced with the task of rebuilding it, could he do so without knowledge of what the proper structure and configurations of its systems should be? He may be able to get it to work, but with some misconnections and errors."

"But it is not safe to assume that is true," deLio exclaimed. "Any more than it would be safe to assume that McGinnis and I were untouched."

"There is no great variance in your brains," Gregory said. "No sign of damage. Just a few markers that a telepath had made contact -- nothing indicating massive rewriting of neural pathways. With the captain, it's impossible to distinguish damaged and healing brain from deliberate changes in the neural network that might program him to act as an agent of the Randra Alliance. We would have to know what to look for."

Deanna let the conversation lapse for a few moments while she closed her eyes and directed her attention to Yves. She couldn't find him -- he was still asleep. And Jean-Luc had succumbed to weariness; she recognized the early stages of slumber, still conscious but nodding off.

"deLio, describe for me again how you felt while with the K'korll."

The L'norim blinked, but complied. "I began to suspect McGinnis. I had disturbing dreams -- my people do not normally dream."

"Those were the only symptoms?"

"I was always uneasy."

"Were there any physical symptoms? Unusual sensations, such as feeling as though insects ran down your skin, or water?"

He considered. "Tingling, at the base of the throat. Something that normally happens when a L'norim is excited. I was not."

Deanna nodded. "McGinnis says she experienced a phenomenon humans call 'goose flesh' in which the finer hairs all over the body stand on end. She described feeling agitated, as if under the influence of drugs. She believed they were due to the circumstance and were part of her reaction to it, and that the K'korll might be intentionally causing her to dream. But something confuses me about this."

"Sir?"

"If the K'korll were actually manipulating you, why did you escape?"

"I had supposed that they were not able to manipulate my species. They were not able to control me, and I was piloting the ship."

"But McGinnis is human, like the captain. If the captain's condition was deliberate why isn't McGinnis also compromised? The doctor found nothing wrong with her and that makes sense here and now, she has low rank and knows nothing useful -- but what about while you were still on K'korll and you were escaping? If they could control or influence the behavior of a human, why did they not use her to keep you from escaping? And how did you get away? In your report you say they had a tractor beam on the shuttle."

"They did. The beam ceased abruptly. It was fortunate that it did, if it had continued the engines might have overloaded."

Deanna glanced around; the others were listening intently, arms crossed, looking at the floor rather than at deLio. "You say you don't understand why they let you go."

"I don't."

"How much do you know about interactions between telepaths and non-telepaths?"

"Very little. I understand the basic abilities of Federation telepathic species. L'norim, as you probably know, are less likely to have such abilities than humans."

"Did you know that humanoids display a wide variety of reactions to telepathic contact, but sometimes do not recognize them?"

"But I recognized that my anxiety must be caused by external influence."

"You interpreted it as the result of the K'korll attempting to delve into your thoughts, to control or harm you. But consider for a moment that you were there among them, unarmed, and that all any of them needed to do was to confine you physically. They tried to block your effort to get to the shuttle, your report says, by standing between you and it. But they never used force. Once you took off, they attempted a tractor beam, but when the beam threatened to damage your ship they stopped. What if they were trying to help you? What if the dreams, the anxiety, and even the captain's reaction were all unintended and a result of incompatibility rather than deliberate effort on the K'korll's part? They did heal him, as much as they could."

"But he said they were attempting to invade his thoughts."

"The captain is predisposed to mistrust any intrusion on his mind, and he was badly injured. There was considerable brain trauma -- how could he reliably report what they really did? It's very likely that he wouldn't know they were at work. Skilled telepaths and telekinetics would be able to work undetected in the mind of someone with no telepathic ability. It's what makes telepaths so frightening to those with no defense against them. You told him they were trying to heal him. He may have imagined malice and intrusion where there was none. The K'korll have no verbal ability, so they use telepathy exclusively. They communicated with you directly?"

"Yes."

She paced away from him, then back -- four slow steps each way. Putting her hands behind her back, she cleared her throat and looked him in the eye.

"deLio, do you trust my judgement?"

"Yes."

"The Asili are deceiving us. I know you don't want to hear that. But consider this -- they fought us at Khevlin and backed down too easily. They attacked a Federation colony to draw us away but did not engage us in battle there at all. I have reviewed our encounter with them, time after time, and given the weaponry at their disposal and how badly outnumbered we were, we should have lost -- they could have captured us. We are leading an undamaged battle fleet into Federation space, unchallenged. All of this has been a deliberate plan to arrange just this, their ships, undamaged and outnumbering us, moving into Federation space with us as approving escort. I suspect the moment they know we are aware of this they'll turn on us, capture our vessel, and use it as their Trojan horse. That's why I haven't told the captain about my suspicions -- as long as there is any question of his being monitored by the Alliance, I can't risk it."

deLio chuffed -- the reaction was automatic, a physiological precursor to deploying his fangs and an indication of his intense displeasure, and he restrained himself before his cheek pouches began to inflate. She'd seen him do this before, but it was rare.

"Commander, if this is true, we must do something immediately," he said after settling down.

"We can do nothing immediately. We are outnumbered, as we observed earlier, so we must continue as we have been. But what I am working toward, more than that observation, is that perhaps we need to find the K'korll. Because the Asili hate them."

"The enemy of my enemy. . . . But what if they are not, and the Asili are actually telling the truth about them?"

"The Asili are afraid of telepaths -- they don't know we have telepaths aboard. Do they?"

"I mentioned there were telepathic species in the Federation. I also told them that Federation telepaths abide by strict ethical codes and would not intrude against anyone's wishes."

"That's true, but I'm not a telepath, and I'm not intentionally intruding. You suspect the K'korll because they made you uncomfortable, you want to believe the Asili because they are familiar -- but you can't assume, deLio."

deLio chuffed again. "I do not like being deceived. They welcomed me as a brother."

"I don't like assuming the worst of anyone," she said gravely. "But they have behaved suspiciously, as have the Khevlin. I did nothing when I sensed the Khevlin's duplicity. I can't allow the Asili to take advantage of the captain's ill-advised offer -- What is it, Geordi?"

More than his expression, she'd reacted to what she sensed from him. It startled him from deep thought. "Um, just thinking that maybe we ought to do a little more detective work. I'll bet I could get a more accurate estimation of their top speed if we could get a tour like what they got from us. Think there's a chance of that, deLio?"

The top two cheek sacs filled then deflated before deLio responded. "Only if the commander goes. I do not like that idea. If the captain is incapacitated or compromised, the commander must not be risked."

"Why only the commander?" Ward asked. "Why not me?"

"Can you claim to be a female? If they were to scan you with their equivalent of a tricorder, they would know you are not. They did scan us shortly after taking us aboard. That may be standard procedure."

"What does being a female have to do with going on a tour?" Geordi exclaimed.

All of this had been in deLio's report. Deanna nodded to him to explain further and wished they had had a staff briefing -- another indicator of the captain's condition. He would have had one, assuming that his officers would be in contact with the Asili and would need to know some basic facts about their culture.

"The Asili are not male and female," deLio said. "The Asili we have seen so far are hermaphroditic. The first mate is solely responsible for populating the ranks; all the children aboard are his. What we would consider the female of the species are rarer, and kept safe behind closed doors. The Ze herself has little contact with the rest of the Asili. The captain was allowed to see her because he initially identified himself as 'first mate,' assuming that this was equivalent to 'captain' and not knowing Gretha's other responsibilities."

"Because she's female, she is important enough to warrant special consideration?" Mengis shook his head. "I don't trust that."

"The captain did not take the time to explain all of this, but it was evident during our stay with the Asili that females are of great importance to them."

"You are assuming that the captain was cognizant of this," Deanna pointed out. "He may appear to be functioning almost normally, but he is not, and was not during your time among the Asili. What would happen if I went on a tour of one of their ships?"

"You will probably be taken to see the female in charge, as a courtesy. Gretha and the other Asili we have met all display a simple reasoning process, which may explain their odd behavior. The 'females' are the ones who determine alliances, make important decisions, and. . . ." deLio's pale green eyes narrowed as his cheek sacs slowly inflated, then bobbled as he continued speaking. "The Asili at the reception were triumphant."

"Because the captain offered them Federation membership," Ward added, uncertain of what the L'norim was thinking.

"Also because the captain offering some form of alliance was an uncertain outcome, but a possible one. Commander, you said they lied during the reception last night, but not what they lied about."

"Part of their claimed history was false, as was the entirety of what they claim to have been told about the Federation. They knew otherwise." Deanna put a hand over Amy, who had begun her nocturnal flutterings and tickled her mother's belly.

"When Ze orders changes, no one questions. The reactions of the Asili to the idea of the K'korll would indicate general abhorrence of all things K'korll -- yet instead of merely destroying the shuttle we were on, they captured it, then reacted in surprise that we were not K'korll. The only conceivable motivation for apprehending a K'korll vessel would be the overriding orders from Ze. They do what they are told in spite of what they know. They would capture live K'korll, even though they fear and loathe them and fully expect the K'korll to damage them, if Ze told them to. It would follow that they would also lie if instructed to do so."

"So if Ze is calling the shots, and Deanna could talk to her directly, ask questions -- she might be able to figure out what's really going on," Geordi exclaimed, grinning in excitement and optimism.

The anticipation from the others was difficult to ignore, but Deanna considered this carefully, not liking the idea of taking her unborn baby to an alien vessel, where so many unknown chemicals might lurk. deLio could bring a tricorder and scan for substances or radiation levels that might be dangerous to a fetus, but that old human saying, 'there's a first time for everything,' kept coming back to her. She didn't want to be the first one to discover a previously-unknown teratogen.

Geordi was right, though. The possible answers attainable in one visit to this Ze could turn this entire mission around.

"deLio, get me on the Zekotha vessel."

"Tomorrow," Dr. Mengis amended.

Deanna could tell he would battle her if she objected, so turned to Geordi. "The repairs? How far can we be on them by tomorrow morning?"

"I might get us warp eight, with some reinforcement to the structural integrity fields. Not sustainable warp eight, but it would be enough for some quick maneuvering. Hull breaches are all contained and minimal, but you know how that goes. Our shields might be up to 79% by morning with a little luck and some rerouting. 75% definitely."

"I hope we won't need them." She paused, summing up the discussion in her head. "Since we are no closer to determining whether the captain has in fact been compromised, we must continue to maintain the illusion that he is in command. You are dismissed. deLio, do you need me to contact Gretha?"

#########

The door chimed. Picard woke from the doze he'd fallen into over the book and yawned as he admitted the visitor -- at first he thought it would be Deanna, but realized as Lieutenant Greenman came in that Deanna wouldn't have requested permission. He closed the book and set it aside.

"Good evening, Lieutenant."

Greenman's attention roamed anxiously then settled on his face. She put her hands behind her back and exuded nervous energy even though she stood at rigid attention. "Good evening, sir."

A pause. What was he supposed to say here? He had reviewed some of his recent logs -- there had been mention of her, but he'd been focused on Deanna and the mission, and all references to anything else were incidental.

"I'm sorry," he said at last. "It's been a long day. Was there something you wanted to discuss?"

His tired smile and soft tone seemed to reassure her. She relaxed, her brown eyes never leaving his. "I just wanted to. . . see if you were all right. Sir. Everyone's been so concerned about you."

He raised an eyebrow. "Evidently, I had some serious injuries. But I'm fine, you can see that, surely. Just. . . still healing, and tired. How have you been?"

"I've been just fine," she blurted, shifting her feet. "I've been babysitting Yves a lot in the past couple weeks. He missed you. Is he asleep?"

"Yes, he's been asleep for an hour now. Aren't you on duty?" Finally, he recalled something pertinent about her.

"I have someone filling in for me. Because, I wondered -- I just thought -- would you like to play chess? I mean, I'd appreciate another lesson, I missed them, when you were gone, and we didn't finish. . . ."

He followed her glance at the chess set sitting on his desk in the corner. A game was already in progress, the pieces spread across all levels. This lieutenant must have meant something to him, if she had played chess here in his quarters. More than just a babysitter or junior officer.

He turned to find her looking at him again, and it struck him -- the earnest worry in her face, the wide light-brown eyes, reminded him of Meribor. Inhaling sharply, he found himself shaking his head and then forced to lie about the reason behind the gesture.

"I was about to call it a night, actually, but I'd like to play chess. Later this week perhaps?"

She smiled. "All right. Oh -- I brought this back." She came forward, bringing a book from behind her back and extending it to him. "It was okay, I guess, but I didn't understand some of them."

The slim volume had 'Poems by Emily Dickinson' in faded gold leaf on its tan cover. "Sometimes it takes a few computer searches to find the right explanations for old terminology," he said, stacking the book with the one he'd just set aside. "I find it as rewarding as the poems themselves. Poems can be an intimate look into the past, in a way that no history book can capture, because they provide hints into the mythos of earlier stages of human civilization."

He realized the worry in her eyes had returned and redoubled itself. She bit her lower lip, backed away a few steps, hesitated, then looked at the floor.

"Natalia?"

Points for the first name. She glanced up, but down again just as quickly. "You told me that before, sir. Um. Thanks for loaning me the book. I should go, if you're -- um -- may I be excused?"

"Of course. Good night."

"Good night. Sir." She walked, but as if she wanted to run.

After she'd gone, Picard went to examine the chess game. Assuming he had been sitting behind the desk, the lieutenant was playing white. Not very well, either. No wonder she wanted lessons.

Unexpectedly, the door chimed, and Greenman strode in again when he responded. Staring at the floor with furrowed brow, she assumed parade rest, spent a few moments in deep thought, then raised her head, chin out. "Sir, I have a hypothetical question."

He turned from the desk and crossed his arms. "Yes?"

"If you had a friend who was badly hurt on an away mission, and he didn't remember you, what would you do?"

He raised an eyebrow. "What is it that I don't remember that has you so concerned? Memory loss in cases like this are temporary, you know, and I've only been back for a day."

"Oh." She considered this with an open mouth and a frown furrowing her brow. "Well. It's nothing specific. Um, it's just that, well, before, you were like -- a friend. But more than that."

"I see." He didn't, though, and some of that must have showed.

"You were like -- you told me once, a few years ago, that I reminded you of. . . Meribor." She couldn't stop looking at the floor, and with the mention of Meribor she dropped her gaze and didn't raise it again.

"I told you that?"

Greenman stiffened. "I'm sorry. I should go." But she hesitated, and in that instant, it occurred to him that he shouldn't let this end on an uncertainty. This might also be an opportunity to glean information he might not find in his own logs.

"I've been reviewing the logs. What was your impression of the way Commander Troi handled the battle?"

"It wasn't really a battle." The lieutenant's head came up again. "We weren't doing much to defend ourselves. The Asili vessels were individually weaker, but there were so many of them that we couldn't have really done anything if we meant to. Well, we could have, but we were ordered not to resort to violence."

"Do you believe we shouldn't trust the Asili's intentions?"

She considered that with an open mouth and narrowed eyes. "Well," she ventured slowly, "it does seem to me that they're hiding something from us. They attacked us, they attacked the Khevlin and injured you -- it was a very focused attack, harmed only a very small area on the planet's surface -- and then they attacked Penaias to draw us away from Khevlin. And if the K'korll were so dangerous, why did they let you go at all? They say they acted under orders from the Alliance. Probably so, but why did those orders let the ship and the away team survive?"

"So if you were in command, what would you do now?"

"Our mission was to the Khevlin. It's been interrupted by the Asili. I'd contact Command, given the sensitive nature of this situation and the ability to do so." This was, apparently, not unusual -- her files indicated her goal was command, and if he'd had a closer-than-usual relationship with her it was likely that mentoring was part of that.

Picard leaned against the desk and contemplated. The girl didn't appear to have been told to conceal things from him; the rest of the senior staff had exhibited reluctance in answering questions. Greenman's discomfort seemed to exist on a personal level. That flew in the face of his assumption that everyone doubted his ability to command.

"If I hadn't lived among them, I might take that course of action," he said. "But I discussed the situation with Ze herself."

Greenman raised her eyebrows. "So, you have information about the Asili that the rest of us don't? An explanation for their behavior that makes sense?"

For a few moments, the words swirled in his head and almost formed the answer. Frustration that he couldn't speak past a sudden block swiftly turned to anger, which must have showed on his face. Greenman took a step backward.

"As you were," he snapped at last. The effort that took amazed him.

"Sir," she snapped back, coming to attention. "May I be dismissed, sir?"

He found his balance at last. Exhaling, he felt the anger dissolve and the freeing of his tongue. "Why did you ask for that information?"

"I beg your pardon?" She blinked in genuine dismay. "Sir, why wouldn't you brief us on it? I mean, you were off the ship and the K'korll, if everything you say is true, compromised -- "

"What are you talking about? *If* I'm telling the truth? What is this?" he blurted. The anger washed over and over him, drowning him. Forcing words from him.

"It's regulation to question a commanding officer's mental state after he's been a captive and possibly compromised by telepathic influences." Now she was reciting by rote, as if this was a test, though her eyes betrayed nervousness.

"But I haven't been relieved of duty, you'll notice. What does that tell you?"

"That -- " She blinked again. Suddenly, the veil fell, and she had the same guarded look his other officers had had all day. "All is well, sir."

"What's wrong?"

"Sir?"

"You're not telling me the whole truth, Lieutenant. Why?"

She flinched from his tone of voice. "May I be -- "

"Yes, get out already!"

He hardly noticed her leaving. Dizziness overtook him. Gripping the edge of the desk, he closed his eyes and tried to shake off the spinning feeling. He came back to himself at long last and discovered he had tilted to the left, almost sliding down to lie on the desk. Righting himself and straightening his uniform, he glanced around at the empty room. His foot landed on something; he picked up the black pawn, then the other pieces that had fallen from the chess board. Not knowing where they had been, he lined them up on the desk. Careless of him to bump the board that way.

What had just happened? Something had. He had spoken to someone, he thought, remembering a pair of frightened brown eyes. But no, that must have been a fleeting memory of Meribor, as the room was empty. He must have been dozing and dreaming of Ressik.

Exhaustion overwhelmed him. What a long day, spent enduring the questioning looks from officers of all ranks. And Deanna had forced him to sickbay -- surely she could tell he was all right. She must have stopped questioning his condition; she'd come home, after all, and brought Yves. She'd be home soon after she finished looking at those repairs. He went to the boy's bedroom and watched him sleep for a moment, then crossed to the main bedroom to get ready for bed himself.

#########

Deanna reached her section of deck eight alone and made it to the door before she realized anew the problems that awaited her within. Suddenly, she wanted very much to see the stranger to whom she was legally married.

First she checked on Yves. In the half-light of his bedroom, he snored lightly, the covers bunched around him and Mr. Tiggles. She touched his fine hair then kissed his forehead, inhaling the familiar smell of her son.

When the lights came up half in the main bedroom, she found Jean-Luc sound asleep, sprawling on his back under the blanket and smiling. She didn't dare touch him the way she had Yves, but she came close and watched him breathing. His fingers twitched; beneath his eyelids she saw the eye movements and knew he dreamed. She sank to one knee, lowered the other, put her hands on the edge of the mattress, and studied his face.

He moved, head turning toward her, and settled again, sighing. She noted that he still smiled, and that the dream, whatever it was, had him in a state of contentment. If only that would last when he woke.

A book had fallen on the floor. One of the poetry books she'd left laying about, she saw as she picked it up. While she straightened pages she found herself looking at a marked page. The poem was one she recognized, but hadn't seen or heard in quite a while. Jean-Luc had quoted it to her the day before their wedding. He must have been looking at marked pages in search of clues that might unlock his memory.

"The final name in my appointment book," she whispered, quoting the final lines. "My future tense."

Tears spilled as she closed the book and put it on the night stand. She watched the rise and fall of his chest beneath the blanket, regular and slow. The way his face looked in shadow as he turned over on his left side and settled almost on the edge of the bed. Deanna sat back on her heels and rested her hands in her lap.

She used to watch him sleep this way. Used to relax, basking in her sense of him close at hand, the way one would sunbathe on a vacation. Since he'd returned from the K'korll she had felt his absence more keenly than she had when they were actually apart. Awake, he felt wrong. He was himself but in too many ways he wasn't. The ache of the missing bond was never far away, but at least when he slept, the odd confusions and attacks of anger didn't cloud her sense of him.

When her feet and ankles hurt too much for her to stay there, she got up, using the night stand for leverage. A hand to her back, she wavered, then succumbed to the urge. She bent low and brushed her lips along his temple. When he didn't stir, she turned away to head for the bathroom.

#########

He awakened to find himself alone in the bed. Deanna hadn't come back last night. After working through an odd series of emotions, betrayal and wistfulness among them, he thought about his wife -- beautiful, decisive, passionate, and refusing to come near him. He could appreciate why, but hadn't expected to feel this way about it. Last night's activities had reminded him of the many aspects of marriage -- his son may be unruly and unpredictable, but his wife handled the boy with patience and affection. She handled her husband the same way, in spite of his inability to remember what he was before. Watching her allowed him to see things about her he hadn't noticed before, at least not in this light. Things he wouldn't observe about another officer in normal circumstances. Her smile. Her breasts, beneath the drenched shirt --

That thought would have predictable results, if others of similar nature followed. He got up, stretched sore and scarred muscles, headed for the shower where the sonics pulsed low in his ears and he couldn't stop the image of her from returning. Rather than fight with it all day he indulged in a time-honored method of dealing with arousal, and wondered if his fantasy were at all accurate. He dressed quickly as if the uniform would be protective insulation against further musings along those lines.

Then, in the living area, he found her. Sprawled on the couch in pale pink pajamas, her uniform draped over the back of a chair and a half-eaten pastry on a plate close at hand. He observed her face in repose and remembered the pregnancy, his eyes automatically straying to her abdomen. The shirt was too swimmingly big to reveal anything. A book under her slack fingers, she lay on her side with forehead pressed to the back of the couch. Bare feet peeked out of the pants. She painted her toenails, kept them neatly trimmed and shaped. The color of the moment was command red.

The urge came to take a foot in his hand and explore it, stroke it, hold it between his hands and move one up her calf. At the same time she moaned and moved an arm, grimacing, peering up at him through slitted eyes.

He watched, suspended in anxious hope that she wouldn't sense anything from him. Stupid. She'd shown a wide range of reactions to everything he felt, contrary to what he remembered of the counselor who only occasionally mentioned such perceptions in session or during a mission.

She sat up slowly. Her hand went to her belly and revealed it by smoothing the shirt over it. Trembling, he sat and tried not to *feel.*

"I hope you slept well." Sounded dry-mouthed, which he was, but it was all he could do to speak.

She nodded. Her legs, still stretched between them, became the object of his attention; it didn't help that she curled them under her and yawned, stretching expansively. It bothered him that suddenly he could be so physically aware of every little thing, a flash of breast as the open collar of her shirt shifted with her, the curve of her neck when she gathered her hair in a straggly knot on the back of her head and stretched again.

Why was she here? She could have gone back to those temporary quarters. He'd given up on seeing her return, decided that she'd had a change of heart after the meeting. But she had returned. Maybe he'd imagined the anxiety in her eyes. He'd berated himself for pushing for more intimacy than she'd been ready to pursue; perhaps that had been premature. She would not wish to wake him, if she'd found him asleep, so the sofa made sense.

Clearing her throat, she swung her legs, put feet to floor, and croaked a greeting, then winced at how it sounded.

"Not a morning person?"

"No. You are, however. What would you like for breakfast?"

He realized he breathed through his open mouth, that he'd watched her lips move in a daze -- she'd removed her makeup and retrieved the pajamas from the bedroom without waking him. He recognized them from his exploration of the drawers. Her eyes were puffy and lines he hadn't seen before spidered from the corners of her eyelids and mouth. Ashamed, he looked away, wishing he hadn't noticed.

"Jean?"

"I'll get breakfast." He looked at her again, drawn to do so. "You're very beautiful."

She laughed, throaty and almost hoarse. But the corners of her mouth turned down when she finished and she turned away, eyelids sweeping down to hide her feelings from him.

She jumped when he touched her. He hesitated, then applied more pressure to her belly, rubbing in a circle to take in its width and depth. Details floated up from wherever his memories of marriage had gone.

"How's your back feel?"

"Fine," she almost gasped, skewering him with a wild glance full of desperate hope. "It's fine."

"How about morning sickness?"

She shook her head.

"I -- " The words weren't there. Voicing how he felt seemed the natural thing to do, but did he really feel love as he'd almost said or was this a reaction to baser emotions? But he feared another accusation of lying if he tried to cover, or worse, her departure. "It's become difficult since last night. I can't look at you without feeling -- uncomfortable."

"I'm sorry." She got up, wringing her hands. "I should get dressed -- could you check on Yves and get him dressed? I'm surprised he's not out here already, he's usually knocking on our door. . . ." The memory startled her into dismay. She hurried into the bedroom.

At least she'd been distracted from noticing his own startlement. He'd somehow forgotten about the child, and the fact that he could alarmed him far more than the physical reaction to Deanna. Of course. She had come back because of the boy. If she didn't trust him entirely, if she thought his mind had been compromised by alien forces as she'd hinted in the ready room, she wouldn't leave her child alone with him for long.

Part of him suffered disappointment at that realization. Deanna had always trusted him. Always accepted him unconditionally, in counseling and out, always looked at him with obvious and friendly affection.

He mustered the courage to go look for his son. Yves had a clutter of toys spread over his rumpled bedcovers and looked up from his project with a grin. "Papa."

"What are you making?" The collection of brightly-colored rods and spheres and cubes were a toy construction set, and the jumble Yves had put together resembled nothing he could recognize.

"Iss a ship," he cried, holding it up -- now Picard could tell there was a pseudo-spherical part connected to a long pseudo-rectangular part with another roughly-rectangular piece sticking out at an angle.

"A ship," Picard exclaimed. "This is our ship?"

"Here's de primawwy hole," he said, pointed at the sort-of saucer section. "An' dis is engineering." He wiggled a finger where it should be.

"Who taught you to build a ship?" He sat on the end of the bed. Something about this caught him off guard and touched him.

"Uncoe Jodie showed me."

It took a full minute to realize he meant Geordi. That his son would have relationships with members of his crew should be expected, but it shook him up nonetheless. Geordi had spent enough time with this child to teach him how to build ships out of construction sets. Yet Picard hadn't known what Yves' favorite bedtime story was, or that he even had an interest in primary hulls and engineering.

"Do you know who Beverly is?"

Yves nodded, the movement exaggerated. "Awnt Bevwerly. She tawks on the 'puter with me."

"What about Will?"

"Uncoe Wiw tawks to me, too. I like him, he funny."

"Yves, let's get dressed, all right? It's time for breakfast."

Yves put his ship down carefully and climbed off the bed. "I want yurgut for bekkist! Can I have spwinkwies?"

"Get dressed first." A good stall while he tried to figure out what the boy meant. He found a pair of pants in a drawer but Yves vetoed them in favor of red ones. A white shirt was rejected in favor of a purple one. "Purple doesn't go with red."

Yves clutched the shirt to his chest and begged with moist eyes. Sighing, Picard pulled the shirt over his son's head and helped with the sleeves.

After a debate over shoes or no shoes, which mainly consisted of him putting one on as Yves took the other off, switch, repeat, they emerged for breakfast to find the table set and Deanna waiting for them. She stifled a grin when she saw Yves and chastised Picard with a look. "I see you picked out your own clothes today."

"Papa hepped me. I built a ship, Mama." Yves started to climb up on a chair. Picard tried to help, but he got down and glared up at his father. "I do it! You don't need to hep."

"Yves, come here and let me see the boo boo." He went around the chair and let Deanna feel the top of his head with her fingers. "He hit his head last week and cut the skin," she explained. "It seems to be healing nicely." She kissed his forehead then lifted him and placed him on the booster seat in the chair he'd been trying to climb. Which explained the check -- any wound would have been mended in sickbay instantly. The distraction had allowed her to get around the boy's resistance to her help.

Picard watched the child more than his own breakfast. Yves fumbled with his utensils but wanted no help, shoving the napkin away when Deanna tried to wipe his chin. He had yogurt on his cheeks and the front of his shirt. 'Spwinkwies' turned out to be a sprinkling of crunchy cereal. While Deanna cleared the table Yves ran for his room to get another shirt and took longer than he should have.

"He probably got distracted by a favorite toy," she said, picking up a padd from among several on the desk in the far corner of the room.

"I wish you had come to bed last night."

"Why?" It robbed her of any good cheer she had.

"When I said I wanted to find a way back to whatever we had together, I meant it, Deanna." He had meant it, however he felt. She was his wife. He remembered the vows, he'd led couples in them numerous times over the years. Til death do you part. Forsaking all others.

She contemplated him as if unsure of how to respond. "You aren't quite healed yet. You needed rest, Jean-Luc."

"Yes, I realize, but I'm mostly back to normal."

"And tired, and still healing. Also not quite the husband I had. I feel like I'm starting all over again, getting to know you. Which may not be a bad way to begin, actually."

"You want me to start over? From the beginning? We're married. That doesn't make sense." And it would be difficult. How could he woo Deanna Troi? He could think of no starting place. The only definite tie was work -- he couldn't treat her as first officer, he didn't flirt with his first officer, couldn't think it, couldn't understand why he'd given her that position in the first place.

She shot a worried look at Yves' open door and spoke quietly. "I will not be taken for granted. You didn't do it before, I won't take it from you now."

"For someone who claims to love me, you're not exactly giving me the impression you really want me." He knew, even as the words left his mouth, that they were not what he would say. Why had those self-serving insulting words left his lips? He didn't mean it -- but for a split-second, he had. What was wrong with him?

She knew something wasn't right. Her face lost some color, her eyes widened slightly. "That isn't like you, no matter what you've forgotten."

He couldn't think of what to say. Wife, he reminded himself. Family. Be responsible. "I can take Yves -- "

"I'll take him to the nursery."

"This isn't a very convincing display of trust and devotion."

She grabbed another padd from the desk and came to force it into his hand. "Funny, that's just what I was thinking."

"I'm trying to be a husband and a father, with very little help from you." He did another double-take. It was like standing outside himself and listening to himself do these things -- he kept saying the wrong things.

" Jean-Luc, I do love you, but could you at least try to understand what this is doing to me? Until you beamed down to Khevlin, I had a husband who loved and supported me, and now I have one who can't remember what motivated him to marry me."

"I might be able to remember -- if you tried to help me. If we could just go back to living as we were before -- " He couldn't control it. If she wanted to leave, he should let her. If she wanted separate quarters he should offer to go, as he had last night. Frustrated, he tried to apologize but it stuck in his throat.

Her eyes went glassy again. She shook her head, unable to keep looking him in the eye. "You're not taking things into consideration that you did before, and you're ignoring my feelings. You're pressuring me."

"I wasn't pressuring you." But I was, I'm sorry, he wanted to add, feeling farther away from himself all the time. Something was wrong.

Anger put lines in her face and lights in her eyes. Anger -- she couldn't sense what he felt now, her own feelings would block it, and he had no idea how he knew this but was certain it had to be true.

"You most certainly are pressuring me. Things will not be the same for a very long time, if ever, and expecting me to act as if they are is wrong. I can tell when you're lying. Pretending you aren't won't do you any good."

He stepped backward, almost dropping the padd. "I'm sorry," escaped at last, around clenched teeth. "Sorry. . . ."

The anger faded from her face until she was left looking tired and despairing. "I'll be back for dinner tonight, but I think it would be best if I stayed in other quarters until further notice."

Yves ran out, dragging a stuffed animal, still in the stained shirt. She took him for a clean one and returned balancing him on her hip. She went out, Yves looking back at Picard over her shoulder, and the doors snapped shut on his view of her exit.

"Deanna," he exclaimed. Too late. Falling back into his chair, he tried to understand why he'd been so ineffective and divided against himself.

#########^~

"Why's Papa angwy?" Yves asked.

Deanna kept walking until she reached the lift, then put him down on his feet. "He's not feeling well. He'll be all right."

"Why can't doctoe hep him?"

"Say your l, Yves. It's 'help.' Your papa will be all right." She guided him into the lift. "Do you know who your teacher will be today?"

"May-lee-ah," he enunciated carefully. "I wike her."

Deanna looked down at him, then dropped to sit on her heels and put her hands on his shoulders. "Yves, how do you feel?"

He shrugged. "Okay."

"How do I feel?"

He shrugged again, but stepped closer and put his arms around her neck. She didn't sense anything unexpected -- he worried and didn't have words to describe it, but he still didn't seem affected by a broken bond. She and Jean-Luc had tried to foster one, but Yves was three-quarters human, and other than being more observant about his parents' feelings there hadn't been much evidence that a family bond had existed.

Still, she knew something remained of hajira, in spite of the ongoing dull aching in her chest. Perhaps a bond between father and son remained intact on whatever level it existed. Yves diagnosing Jean-Luc as 'sad' last night had been a surprise; Jean had been keeping up his stoic mask, so often used in uncomfortable situations over the years.

She picked him up again and carried him from the lift to the nursery door. Malia, who took her turn in the nursery twice a week, met her and led Yves off to play with the other children. Deanna hurried away from the worried glance Malia gave her.

She arrived on the bridge to find deLio waiting for her near the lift. He escorted her to the observation area just off the bridge, where staff meetings were often held. Geordi and Ward waited there for them, both in rumpled uniforms and clutching steaming cups. The bitter smell of black coffee caused a sudden wrench in her stomach.

"I was optimistic. Warp seven is the best we can do, and only for a limited time," Geordi said. "I don't like taking chances that way -- we have new stress fractures in the hull already."

"We'll have to wait and see if we need to resort to it. I'll go to the other ship after the captain visits the bridge. Doctor, I'll want the usual dose of inhibitor when I return. I'm going to convince the captain to report to sickbay again -- it's best if we keep him ignorant of what I'm doing, I think. Even if he isn't under alien control, in his current state there is no way to predict what he'll do. He's already shown increased agitation this morning -- he's acting out of character in situations in which he hadn't done so previously, and I'm not certain why. I'd like you to occupy him as long as you can. deLio what arrangements were you able to make with --"

The door opened. Greenman came in, nervous as a cadet. "Sir. . . ."

Deanna gave her a moment but she didn't seem able to collect herself. "Lieutenant?"

"I think I did something wrong." She glanced frantically at the door as if afraid someone would come in behind her. "Last night."

"What would that be?" Ward asked. "You were supposed to be on duty."

"I had someone fill in for me. I went -- I was -- he isn't right, is he? The captain." Natalia inhaled deeply and drew herself up. "I thought you would be there, sir," she continued in a more even tone, looking at Deanna. "I talked to him, returned a book -- he doesn't remember much about me. And then he got angry at me, and seemed to be in pain for a minute."

"Lieutenant," Deanna exclaimed, then softened her tone. "Nat, I want you to tell me what was said right before he lost his temper. Describe to me what he did."

"I asked him about the mission -- he asked me questions, like he sometimes does, I thought he was testing me. He asked what I would do in this situation. I said I'd probably contact Command, if I were able. Because of the sensitivity of the situation. And he said, 'If I hadn't lived among them, I might take that course of action. But I discussed the situation with Ze herself.'"

The shock of hearing this second-hand was like a physical blow. Deanna exchanged a glance with deLio; for once, the L'norim looked openly angry, thin gray lips pressed together and eyes narrowed. She quickly refocused on Natalia.

"What else?"

"I asked him if he had information the rest of us didn't, if he could explain their behavior. He got this stunned look, like I hit him, and seemed to be fighting with himself. And then he snapped at me, angry, 'as you were,' and I asked to be dismissed. Then it was like he could suddenly breathe -- he deflated, and the anger left his face. He asked why I asked those questions. I told him I didn't understand why he hadn't briefed the senior officers yet, because he was off the ship and with aliens who might have compromised security. He got angry again, defensive, and since he relaxed before by reverting to a more official demeanor I quoted regulations at him. It helped -- he said, 'But I haven't been relieved of duty, you'll notice. What does that tell you?' And then I realized what I'd done -- you hadn't confronted him on any of it yet because you were afraid he'd not only been compromised but still presented a danger, a security leak, and that was why he was still technically on duty. When he wanted to know why I was dodging I requested dismissal again and he snapped at me to get out, so I did."

Deanna leaned on the end of the table heavily. "You were supposed to be on duty, Lieutenant. We're in a crisis situation -- duty comes first. I expect you to pay more attention to your job. I want you to find the counselor and relay the incident with the captain to him, then I want you to forget it happened until further notice and get to your duty station. Stay away from the captain. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Natalia exclaimed, at rigid attention.

"Thank you for volunteering the information. Dismissed."

When the lieutenant had gone, Ward let go of the frown he'd stifled. "We should have known she'd do that."

"I cautioned her to leave the situation to the doctor and counselor," deLio said. "I should have made it an order."

"It's as much my omission as anyone's," Deanna said. "If there weren't so much else to think about I would have realized she might do it. But it does tell us more than we knew before. He is angered when his competence is questioned. That's emerging as a pattern more consistently now, and it's crossed the boundary between professional and personal."

"We are to meet Gretha in fifteen minutes," deLio said. It was all he had time to say; the door opened again, and this time, the captain strode in.

"Good morning, Captain," Deanna said. "We have good news. Geordi was just telling us that repairs have progressed beyond our expectations."

As she spoke, he met her eyes and she sensed the ire in him abating. He hadn't expected a cheerful greeting. "Really?"

"And Dr. Mengis tells me most of your test results from yesterday's exam are promising, but that an equipment failure caused incorrect results on a few of them," she added.

Mengis eyed her in reproach and spoke quickly. "Not to mention the previous results lead me to conclude that further testing is necessary -- in particular, I am concerned about the effects of the Asili foodstuffs on your body chemistry. I would like to continue to test at twenty-four-hour intervals and monitor the changes as you re-adapt to a normal diet."

"Perhaps this afternoon -- "

"Waiting that long would be inadvisable," Mengis exclaimed.

"I have things to do." Jean-Luc turned away from the doctor to address Deanna.

"Procedure," she said, forestalling his changing the subject. "I'm afraid I'll have to second the doctor's request. I did try to convince him to put it off, but. . . ."

She thought he might object, get angry, but he reached the point of passing from frustration to anger, then exhaled and nodded curtly. "Very well."

"I'll be as quick as I can about it," Mengis said, and as the captain turned to go, the doctor shot a meaningful glance at Deanna. The doors closed behind them.

She pursed her lips. "You have the bridge, Ward. Geordi, if you would handle the transporter? I'd prefer to keep this endeavor confidential as possible. We'll meet in the conference room on deck two when I return. Let Gregory know when the captain leaves sickbay."

#########

They beamed into the bridge of the Zekotha ship and Gretha met them, flanked by subordinates of varying ages. Glancing over his shoulder at Deanna, deLio noticed her quick glances around them and saw the bridge as she must -- sloping walls domed overhead, stations set in the floor at irregular intervals, the obvious residue of many bare feet on the copper-colored deck plating. And the smell. He often wondered how alien crewmates' senses compared to L'norim senses, if the nuances of the odor of many creatures in confined places were evident or if there was simply an undeniable stench. They should have brought nose filters; Deanna grimaced, obviously more sensitive to it than he, but composed herself.

The dimmer lighting suited his eyes more than that of Starfleet vessels. deLio ignored a young Zekotha brushing his leg. "Gretha. Thank you for allowing us to see your vessel. Commander Troi expressed great interest in doing so after Captain Picard described it to her."

"Captain Picard is welcome any time. I do not see why he would send Commander Troi to see our ship when he has already seen it."

deLio inhaled, channeled air through his cheek sacs, and subsided. "Commander Troi wished to see it herself. She instructed me to accompany her."

"You did not receive permission to do this?" Gretha's mane rose a few quills at a time. It seemed to indicate that gender specific terms were not translating well.

"If Ze instructed one of these," he gestured at the smaller Zekotha around them, "to do something, he would do it. I am following Commander Troi's instructions."

All at once, every Zekotha on the bridge stood upright. Gretha's short muzzle wrinkled and the slitted nostrils opened wide. He barked once, sending all the others scurrying away from him to lurk at the periphery of the bridge. Then Gretha thrust his head forward and almost collided with deLio, who almost leaped backward but caught himself and stood his ground.

"You risk her this way." The growl and concussions of multiple consonants of what he actually said provided an odd background for the translator's rendition of it.

"I obey," deLio said. "Is it a risk to bring her here, then?"

Gretha straightened, rattling his quills. The way he looked down at deLio set his instincts on edge. deLio ignored the impulse to defend himself. Gretha backed away, then stepped toward Deanna, who remained silent. deLio got in his way.

"If you do not wish to have Commander Troi as your guest, I am certain she will understand."

"I did not say this." Gretha stared over deLio's shoulder at Deanna, then bent over until his mane stood up like a brush. "You did not reveal yourself as hechiipa at the reception. I am sorry, Commander Troi."

deLio noted the term the translator still couldn't manage, even with the availability of the ship's computer to aide it. "She would like to see the ship." Carefully, he gripped Gretha's arm, avoiding the quills, and pushed him away from the commander. Gretha rose, calmed himself, and didn't try to address her directly again.

deLio ignored the tour and anything Gretha said about the ship; Deanna had brought a tricorder to run continuously and capture any pertinent details first hand. Instead he remained vigilant for any threats against them. The tour was shorter than the one deLio had guided them through on the *Enterprise*, as the Asili had no interest in science of any kind and their medical facility was small and not as well appointed as a Starfleet vessel's sickbay.

Gretha behaved quite differently toward Commander Troi than he had to the captain. At first, Gretha's quick glances around them as they entered a new area seemed like paranoia of someone with something to hide. But after seeing Gretha snap at a group of younger Zekotha to clean up a mess, deLio decided it must be simple nervousness -- this was an extension of inbred respect for all females, or hechiipa, as the Asili would classify them.

How these people could be so intelligent yet so subservient mystified him. The Asili could be an example of genetic determinism, or of intense indoctrination -- it would be fascinating to hear Deanna's theories of their behavior, considering her background in exo-psychology. deLio watched the young Zekotha scatter before their parent and Gretha's ire at the disarray in which he found the large eating area. deLio had noticed none of this ire during his time among them. If this was all they knew, the inconsistent teaching of a single parent, perhaps it was more surprising that any of them displayed any intelligence or discipline.

As they reached the end of the tour of the spaces with which deLio was familiar, Gretha turned through a door at the end of a corridor that deLio had never seen open. He whirled and put a hand on deLio's chest. "You may not enter."

"I am responsible for Commander Troi's safety. I will enter."

Gretha's quills rose. "She will not be harmed. I will bring her back here, to you. But you may not enter."

"deLio," Deanna said softly. She pressed something into his palm as she came alongside him. "I will finish the tour."

He met her gaze and considered objecting. He'd not guessed that Gretha would object to his accompanying Deanna, as the first mate had been so concerned for her security, but there it was. Deanna's lips tightened -- she would say his rebellion would break this careful pretense. A misstep on his part might shatter Gretha's newfound respect for her, or if it did not, Gretha might take it to another extreme and defend her.

"I will wait here," deLio announced. "As you wish."

When the door hissed shut behind them, he looked at what Troi had given him. A small device that on first examination looked like a comm badge, but lacked the face plate. As he frowned at it, he heard a whisper of sound from it. Holding it up to his ear, he realized that it was in fact an altered comm badge, receiving from Troi's comm badge, or some other transmitter she had secreted on her person.

He fastened it on his collar beneath his ear, backed against the wall opposite, and stood at attention, listening to the whisper of conversation.

#########^~

"Doctor, I have things to do. This is taking too long."

Mengis didn't look up from the padd. "I explained, Captain, that this is necessary. I don't believe you fully realize the scope of your injuries. From deLio's and McGinnis' descriptions and the trace evidence I can see even after the K'korll, you endured considerable blood loss, fractured and broken bones throughout your body, brain damage, perforated internal organs -- "

"But I don't have any of those things right now. Are you even close to being finished?"

The doctor had been running tests he'd already run -- Picard was sure of it. And Mengis had hardly looked at him, as if minimizing opportunities for conversation by appearing to be engrossed in what he was doing. Now Mengis crossed the room and muttered something to one of the lieutenants, who hurried from the room, and instructed the other woman to get him something.

Picard grabbed his jacket and had it half on before Mengis turned around again. "Captain, we still have -- "

"We can do it later. Can't we? Am I fit for duty, or not?" he snapped. He stood, straightened his uniform, and stepped away from the biobed.

The doctor halted in the middle of sickbay. For a few moments they dueled silently, staring, Picard daring the man to object.

"You are," the doctor said. "Captain."

"Good."

He was almost to the lift at the end of the corridor outside sickbay when it opened and the lieutenant Mengis had dispatched came out. She glanced at him in passing but said nothing, merely hurried for sickbay. Not carrying anything. Not with anyone. What was Mengis up to?

He got in the turbolift. "Bridge." As the car hummed up through the decks, he watched the panel display, noted when the car changed directions, and thought about Troi. Puzzling how he had gotten along so well with her last night, had it fall apart after breakfast, and all of a sudden she was a cheerful officer.

The lift slowed. The doors snapped open, and Guinan came in. Her appearance surprised him -- he was certain she hadn't been aboard the ship when it left spacedock.

"Hello, Captain." She smiled, serene as always. "It's good to see you. I heard you'd been injured. Glad to see that was an exaggeration."

"I was, but I'm much better. I'm sorry I haven't come to see you before, but I've been busy."

"I assumed so." She turned to stand beside him, hands clasped before her. "Do you have a moment?"

The doors closed, and seconds after the car began to move, he called for it to halt. "Is something wrong?"

Her smile dwindled to pensiveness. "I suspect so."

"In what way?"

She tilted her head. Instead of a hat, she wore a long dusky-blue sleeve over her hair that complemented her darker-blue robes. "The crew is nervous. I would guess that's because of the situation, except diplomatic situations usually don't have that effect."

"It's the Randra Alliance. We're out of Federation territory, dealing with species who have been allied previously with the Alliance."

Guinan's skepticism traced faint lines around her mouth. "Is that all?"

"I also suspect that the senior officers are. . . . Guinan, they think I'm dangerous."

"Why would you say that? Have they expressed suspicion?" She looked at him directly again. "You're angry."

He glanced down at his hands, left nested inside the right, fingers curled tight. The wedding band felt cold against the palm of his right hand. "Do you think I'm dangerous?"

"Only under certain circumstances."

"My own officers think I'm dangerous, to the mission or to them. I don't understand why. The doctor won't declare me unfit, but he won't leave me alone, either. I walk into the briefing room and they go quiet."

"You're the captain," she replied as if it should be self-evident why that would happen.

"Deanna isn't behaving as I would expect."

"As a wife, or as first officer? They're different roles."

"Either." He wanted to pace, but crossed his arms instead. "I don't understand how she became either. Did you hear -- did you know I've lost part of my memory?"

"I have now. I can tell you that she's a good first officer, if that helps."

"How do you know that?"

Guinan suppressed another smile. "You told me."

He did pace then, just a few steps either way. "What about the wife?"

"I don't know much about that aspect of your relationship. You seemed happy enough."

"I don't see how," he muttered. "She doesn't even seem that upset that I can't remember her."

Guinan's face changed, so slightly that anyone who knew her well would be hard pressed to detect it. But something in her eyes had shifted -- something in the set of her mouth. "You don't see the desolation she feels."

"Desolation?" Dismayed at the crack in his voice, he turned away. "What desolation?"

"Have you gotten angry with her because you think she's suspicious of you?"

Why would Guinan ask that? Before he could answer, his tongue clove in two -- his mind sliced down the middle, a searing flash and the confession that he had been unreasonably angry and short with his wife lay beyond his reach, unspoken and covered over in the anger.

Guinan watched him now with suspicion. "Why are you angry at me?"

"I can't -- I'm not," he blurted. The bifurcation continued but he struggled against it with all the fear and loneliness, the frustration and anger of suffering a sundered mind. It was that -- he could recognize it as more than just indecision or internal conflict now. "I don't understand. . . ."

"Would you do what she's doing, if you were first officer, and your captain had been under possible alien influence?"

She'd mistaken his difficulties. He thought about the Asili, the K'korll, the mission, and the anger trickled away. When he opened his eyes he found himself standing in the lift with a K'korll, and jumped.

"Are you all right?" Guinan asked. He turned from the greasy-black apparition standing on his right to find his friend watching him with furrowed brow. He tried to tell her no. His tongue seized, his throat constricted, and he could feel the intensity of the alien's glittering black eyes trained on him. He tried the other answer.

"I'm fine."

Guinan sidled closer and touched his arm. "You're sure about that?"

She knew he wasn't, but she wouldn't say as much. In some ways she could be so like Deanna. With that thought, pain stabbed him through the left temple. He recovered swiftly but realized he'd swayed and come up against the wall of the lift. The alien was gone. Guinan had him by the arm more firmly now.

"Captain? Jean-Luc?"

"Fine," he muttered. "Headache."

"Computer, deck ten."

She led him forward when the doors opened but he pulled free. "I told you, I'll be fine."

"If you have a headache it could be a symptom of something the doctor should know about."

"Guinan, I just came from sickbay. He would have found it if something were wrong."

"Why did you leave sickbay with a headache?"

"I -- " He did an about-face and found himself in the lift again. But she came with him, again tugging at his arm. "Stop it!"

She let go. "Jean-Luc. Look at me."

"I don't have time for this." He turned, pushing her hands away. "Guinan, I have things to do."

She gave him the look, and it brought him to a standstill. They waited as someone walked by them and vanished around the next corner. Guinan sidestepped, centering herself in the open lift doors, and tucked her chin, eyeing him pointedly.

"You and I both know there is something wrong, Jean-Luc. The question is whether you are able to do anything about it, or if something must be done on your behalf. And as it's not my place to do that, I'll remind you of whose responsibility it will be. She's doing what she has to do to continue to function as your officer. If that means hiding her feelings, she'll do it. However difficult that is for her, she'll manage because she knows you would want her to take care of the ship and crew before she addresses any concern she may have for you. I think you probably could see that, even if you don't remember your wife."

Words failed him for a moment. He couldn't look away from her eyes, and the longer he looked into them, the longer he remained free of the anger he'd come to expect. Finally, he tried a question he hadn't been able to voice.

"Is it so obvious to everyone? Am I that different?"

Guinan nodded once. Her dark eyes held sad affirmation.

"I don't know where to start, Guinan. I need Counselor Troi, but I don't have her."

"You might talk to Commander Troi. I think that would be a place to start." She nodded again, as if confirming her suggestion to herself. "I won't keep you any longer, Captain. Excuse me."

He watched her move away down the corridor, unhurried, not looking back at him.

Was something wrong? What could he do? He tried to think, but unexpectedly the pain returned twofold and seared all rational thought from his mind.

He opened his eyes to discover he was looking at the floor of the lift, and that said floor was hard against his knees. Raising his head, he removed his hands from the wall he didn't remember leaning against. Got one foot under him, the other, and staggered against the wall again. The doors had closed. No motion.

"Bridge."

The word came out of a dry throat, and as he rode up through the decks he clenched his shaking hands. What was wrong with him? He'd just been discharged from sickbay, this couldn't be anything serious. He just needed something to eat. Must be nearly time for lunch. He wished Guinan were still aboard, but remembered not being able to find her in the reassembling of the crew at the commissioning of the 1701-E. It would have been nice to visit Ten Forward to eat and chat with the hostess.

He frowned, but shook himself out of it as the doors opened on the bridge. Why was he suddenly thinking of that, after all this time?

deLio wasn't on the bridge, and a Sulamid stood at tactical. Troi must already have left Carlisle in command and gone to eat. Picard nodded at the ops man and strolled into the ready room, planning on a working lunch. There were still plenty of logs to scan and the ship would soon be in range to contact Command on a live feed.

#########^~

"Our hechi," Gretha said.

The room contained ten large cribs -- they didn't look like the human or Betazoid versions, but they were used to contain small Asili. In the nearest crib, a waist-high cylinder with clear sides and a padded rail around the top of the barrier, a youngster about the same size as Yves stood with outstretched hand. There was no appreciable difference between these little creatures and the ones she'd seen elsewhere in the ship. The fur, varying from red to brown and all shades in between, the quills, mostly reddish tipped in black -- just the same.

Gretha huffed and snorted at another child -- the equivalent of baby talk? -- and the hechi yowled and leaned against the wall of her prison. Deanna smiled as the hulking first mate leaned down to rub muzzles with the child.

"Your daughter?" she asked.

Gretha's quills rattled, but in confusion this time instead of ire. "It would not be otherwise. I am first mate."

Perhaps the difference between non-hechiipa and hechiipa was in cognitive ability. She sensed only mild disturbance from him, as if she had stated something obvious to test him. His mood throughout the tour had been very different than the swaggering Gretha who had toured the *Enterprise*. He hadn't scanned her; his immediate acceptance of deLio's indication of her gender followed by subservience had surprised her.

"How old are they?" she asked, hoping this was an allowable question.

"Four years." A meaningless figure to her who knew nothing of the length of an Asili year, but she smiled and nodded as if she understood all the ramifications of it. "You have hechi?" he asked.

"I have this hechi." She put a hand over her abdomen and hoped this worked the way she thought it might.

Gretha backed a step, hissing, pulling his lips back from his teeth.

"I would not risk her. We did not know you were also protective of your hechi. When Captain Picard explained Ze and the hechi I realized our error. You trust us to follow us from the Randra Alliance to the Federation, and now you bring me here. We did not trust you enough to show you our hechi. I am shamed."

The simpler she could make her statements, the less margin for error with the translator. Gretha seemed satisfied by them. "You should not feel shame. It is natural to protect hechi and to wish also to show them to others, if they are of excellent quality."

Quality? To stall for time to understand this, she crossed the uneven floor to another crib. The inhabitant of this one mewled and crouched against the side furthest from her.

"Was it Ze who sent the ambassador to Deneva?" she asked, deciding to pursue a different topic. There were too many mistakes she might make in the discussion of children.

"Ambassador?"

"To speak to the Federation about a treaty."

"I do not know of an ambassador. Perhaps Ze knows." Gretha strode down the rows of cribs and ignored the eager calls of the hechi. He looked back at her as he went through another of the single-panel doors. Deanna got a look at a darker room beyond before the door closed.

She went from one crib to the next. There were minute differences between one hechi and another, mostly in pigmentation. "Hello," she said to one that didn't seem afraid of her. The hechi toddled over and held out a small fuzzy toy. Deanna didn't take it or touch the crib. "That's nice. Is that your favorite toy?"

The little Asili bared sharp rows of dark fangs and howled. The fuzzy toy sailed through the air, bounced off Deanna's arm, and landed on the floor. She picked it up and froze, inside and out. The 'toy' looked like a human scalp.

The hechi howled again. Deanna tucked the 'toy' up her sleeve. "Can you speak, little one?"

More howling. Now the others started to do the same. The emotional turmoil from the little creatures threatened to overwhelm her. "I'm fine," she said for deLio's benefit. "They're children. I don't think they understand what I'm saying."

She moved to the center of the room and looked at the floor, hoping body language would help. The howling abated, to be replaced by teeth-gnashing and some rumblings and growlings from a few of them. Now that the excitement was over Deanna sensed something other than agitated hechi -- a presence. Very aware, searching, and obviously not Asili. Odd; she would have sensed this even from the *Enterprise* yet there had been no trace of it. A powerful mind pressed into hers, and immediately she thought of flowers, meadows, sunshine on water, birds singing, the feel of grass between her toes, swimming in the lake and the shouts of happy children -- the presence faded again rapidly and she set aside the childhood memory.

Sudden epiphany. Jean-Luc had come here and faced Ze. What condition had he been in? Had he remembered how to fend off telepathic probes? The presence hadn't been particularly powerful -- it felt weaker than most undeveloped and untrained Betazoid adolescents. Certainly not powerful enough to have any influence over her, and she doubted it could do much to a discipline human mind. But a human who had brain injuries, perhaps partially-healed but leaving him in a weakened condition? Or had the K'korll conditioned the captain to serve this weaker mind?

It made a twisted kind of sense -- if they knew there were telepaths aboard Federation vessels, this would be the logical way to handle telepathic manipulation of an unwitting agent aboard such vessels. Make the controlling agent weak but attune the controlled to the controller, minimizing the risk of detection. Especially if the connection operated on a different "frequency" than most other telepaths.

The door hissed open, and with a snarl from Gretha the hechi all fell silent. He touched several of them as he approached, and she barely had time to detect his frustration and fear before another being appeared in the door behind him.

She had thought Gretha was large, but this creature, the hechiipa, was larger still. Ze's pelt was a deep shade of burgundy, a few pale cream stripes down her massive forearms the only variation. She lumbered along but Deanna suspected that was due to her being pregnant. As Ze came closer, Deanna sensed no less than ten individuals where she saw only one, a nine-foot-tall Asili with a crown of black quills that ran from her forehead down her back to her hips.

Ze blinked down at her, tilted her head, and sniffed. "You are a small one."

"My kind are not large," Deanna replied. "I am pleased to meet you."

Ze stared, her black eyes rimmed in red open wide but giving away nothing. Deanna sensed the calculation and diffidence -- Ze did not care, about her or anything else in the room. The hechi had all gone quiet and stayed that way. Ze glanced Gretha's way and Deanna caught a flicker of annoyance. The queen, disturbed by an underling, possibly from a nap. She had that laziness about her.

"You must be relieved that your people are escaping the Randra Alliance, and that you will be able to live on a planet again," Deanna said.

Ze blinked and drew herself up -- all semblance of the lazy pregnant queen vanished. Quills rattled, muscles rippled beneath burgundy fur, and a loud snort made the hechi jump and yammer in their cribs. "Yes, very pleased," Ze exclaimed. Amusement. Smug, triumphant, and chilling.

"Fortunate that you decided to board the K'korll ship rather than destroy it, as I am certain you wished to do."

Ze blinked again and regarded her with significantly less amusement, and the beginnings of suspicion.

"My first mate may have been permanently damaged. It would please me to repay the K'korll for this." Wire-walking was a dangerous game, but hinting vaguely would generate readable responses and give her a way of backing out of anything offensive or alarming.

"They are dangerous creatures. We detected aliens aboard that ship -- curiosity prevailed. Finding Federation so far into Alliance territory, in a K'korll vessel, surprised us." Ze was pleased with herself for the lie. From deLio's report, Gretha had been surprised to find them instead of K'korll. Ze had not been surprised at all.

"I am curious about the Asili ambassador who went to the Federation. I did suspect this sudden willingness to ally yourselves with the Federation, but when I heard of this ambassador, it reassured me."

"The Brocalakotha sent that one. Re and I were surprised to hear of it." Disapproval. Ze nodded and half-closed her eyes. "It was a wise thing to do." Another lie, in spite of her anger. There appeared to be dissent among the Asili clans on some points.

"Gretha has shown me your ship. I am impressed. There are more Zekotha than I thought."

"I have a productive first mate." Ze nodded in Gretha's direction, but again, that flicker of ire. Still hadn't forgiven Gretha for something.

Deanna walked slowly around the nearest crib, trying not to be unsettled by the way its occupant watched her and curled a lip. "I have never met a species who lives entirely in space. Most of our people return to their home world after serving aboard a ship."

"I have never met a species who would send hechi to another ship." Ze's gaze intensified and became not unlike that of the child in the crib. A predator's regard for an easy kill. "Why are you here, Commander Troi?"

"To pay my respects to future members of the Federation. My first mate told me about you. He did not invite you to our vessel. I would have, if I had known."

"Known what?" Ze eyed her and prowled the other way around the crib.

Deanna altered her trajectory and moved to the next crib instead of coming all the way around the first one. Ze's words were almost as telling as her growing suspicion. 'A species who would send hechi' -- Ze was assuming she had been sent, and that she was not hechiipa. Perhaps that was why Ze had become angry with Gretha. Ze could recognize cultural differences where Gretha could not. Her anger had the flavor of a parent frustrated with a very small child. But something kept Ze from acting out -- the mission? There had to be some plan under way.

"You have lovely children," Deanna said, looking down at the hechi to her right. Her stomach tightened at the sight of a white object within a fold of the hechi's bedding. Bone?

"They are hungry." Again, a sense of triumph from Ze.

"Are they often hungry? Is it difficult to find food for so many, while living in space?" The 'toy' tickled her arm. Part of it seemed to be damp. She had seen no replicators anywhere, and the gardening areas on the deck below didn't seem to produce enough to feed all the Asili she had seen.

Ze didn't twitch. Her silence and immobility frightened Deanna -- a visceral reaction to the constant stare of a known predator. Ze seemed deep in contemplation of something. The longer Deanna spent in her presence, the more Deanna sensed of her. Ze was not only more intelligent and intuitive than the other Asili, she regarded Deanna with disdain and near-boredom, as if keeping up an appearance she was tired of preserving. And she, like the hechi, was hungry.

"I notice that you do not seem to have replicators aboard," Deanna continued. "The Federation could assist you in finding food."

"I am certain that they will."

"I will take my leave of you now, Ze, as my own children need to be fed as well. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me." Deanna reached the other end of the room, cut across to the door, and hesitated. "It was an unexpected pleasure. I hope to see you again soon."

Ze purred and said, "I do not doubt that you will."

Gretha, who had been standing very still near the door, followed her out, almost stepping on the heels of her boots. He stood over her in the corridor as deLio rushed forward.

"Thank you, Gretha, for giving me the chance to see the ship. I hope Ze was not very angry with you?"

Gretha quivered, but for once, his quills remained flattened against the back of his head and neck. "I am first mate. I obey the hechiipa. I am honored to meet you, hechiipa Commander Troi. Farewell, deLio." Rather than wait while they beamed out, Gretha spun and hurried back through the door, his terror doubling.

Deanna stared after him in shock. deLio tapped his badge and said, "deLio to *Enterprise*, two to beam -- "

A wall-shaking thump made both of them jump. The transporter took them away; as the beam deposited them in the familiar transporter room of the *Enterprise*, Deanna's knees collapsed beneath her as her body reacted to the agony she'd sensed before beamout. She stumbled down from the platform, landed on her knees, and before she finished retching, hands were helping her up and a tricorder whined. She groped and caught a shoulder on either side, blinked her vision clear, and took stock -- Geordi on the left, Gregory checking her over with his medical tricorder.

"I'm fine," she gasped. She pointed at the floor where the 'toy' had fallen from her sleeve. "I want to know who that belonged to. Geordi, I want to either outrun or outgun this fleet. Yesterday. Get to work." She snatched the tricorder from her belt and pushed it into Geordi until he took it. "Contact me when you have a solution."

"Was Gretha helpful?" Gregory asked. He pressed a hypospray to her arm, administering the inhibitor through her sleeve.

"Too helpful. I doubt he'll be able to help us again. deLio, you're sure the captain saw Ze? Were they in the same place?"

"It was not the same place. What happened? How did you know to give me this?" He held out the altered badge.

"I guessed they might not allow you to accompany me if I did get in to see Ze. If I had thought of it sooner, I wouldn't have had to improvise at the last minute. Sorry, Geordi."

"No problem. I've already replaced the badge. You sure you're all right? You're shaking like crazy."

"That wasn't the most pleasant diplomatic visit. In fact, it's ranking pretty high on the list of disastrous ones." She winced as she glanced at the item Dr. Mengis had picked up. "Is it what I think?"

"If you think it's part of a human scalp, yes," Gregory said softly. "Where did this come from?"

"One of their children threw it at me. If your people were wandering around space with no replicator technology and inadequate space to grow enough food to feed everyone, what would you eat?" she asked.

No one answered. As they left the transporter room, all of them looked vaguely ill. She had to order deLio to go with Geordi, as he showed no sign of leaving her side, and then she had to ride with Gregory in the lift until deck ten, where he stood in the open door of the lift for a moment as if asking if she was certain she wanted him to leave.

She went to deck two. It wouldn't take long for the others to get there, so she took full advantage of the little time she had to meditate. Ward was the first to arrive. She raised her head as he came in and hurried around the table.

"Deanna. Are you all right?"

"Much better. He's in the ready room?"

Ward nodded. "Greg sent me a message. Mentioned the souvenir. Sure you're all right?"

"I have to be, I'm going to be in command shortly. It's not good, Ward, not at all. If he did meet with Ze, he would have said something if he weren't -- " Her mouth wouldn't form the words. Tears formed, but at the brush of Ward's fingers on her shoulder, she shook him off and blinked them away. "Could you get me a glass of water while you're at the replicator?"

He responded to the implied suggestion at once; he was thirsty, as she had sensed. By the time he returned with the water and another cup for him, she had her composure, and Geordi arrived. "I have good news. The Asili fleet can only do warp five, if all their ships are built to the same specs as the Zekotha's."

"How long can we remain at high warp safely? I need to know what our safety margins are. This has to be timed well."

"About fifteen minutes, tops. Also, you can be assured they wouldn't know if we were scanning them. Their equipment isn't up to that level of detection."

The doors opening interrupted them. Mengis entered. "The specimen belonged to one Lieutenant Kevin Palmer, of the Nebula-class starship *Bangor*."

Deanna's stomach clenched once again. "Missing for the past four months, no trace of it found by the vessels sent to search for it. We were supposed to keep an eye out for them, but actually finding them wasn't expected. How long has Mr. Palmer been dead, or can you tell?"

"Not long. Two weeks, at most."

Ward sighed. "I wonder how many other -- "

"We need to scan the fleet for human life signs," Deanna exclaimed, not wanting to hear speculation about Asili kidnaping or enslaving unwary passers-by. "I want it done now. We have forty minutes before the fleet reaches Federation space, and I don't want them crossing that boundary with us. I want to avoid any implication that we allowed them easy access to the Federation, and I don't want the captain to be able to contact Command directly. We'll have to disable his command codes in case he remembers them. Doctor, you and the counselor should take care of that as soon as possible."

"What if the captain tries and fails, and he's under their observation like we think?" Ward asked. "What if not all the ships are as poorly rigged as the one you were on, and they find out we're scanning them?"

"I don't care, Ward. Geordi says we can outrun them, that's what we're going to do, and the minute we're back in range of the Federation subspace array we're going to warn Starfleet and every Federation colony within a sector of Alliance space."

"We should also get an idea of weaponry and defensive capabilities of the fleet in general," Geordi said. "Verify our assumption that they're all of similar make, since we're going to be scanning actively."

"This feels like mutiny," Ward said.

"The counselor and I would have put him on mandatory medical leave, Mr. Carlisle," Mengis said. "He wouldn't be in command, if we weren't questioning his being used as a tool of the Alliance."

The door hissed open. The captain strode in, closely followed by the counselor, and Davidson shot Deanna a wild glance of warning as Jean-Luc exclaimed, "What's going on?"

Deanna sensed his ire but couldn't see the cause. "We're discussing the Asili, sir."

He eyed her, and she contemplated the possibilities -- was he still angry at her from their altercation earlier? If all things were normal, a post-breakfast tiff wouldn't be carried on duty with him, but things were not normal.

There was one part of her theory that needed to be tested before they left the Asili fleet far behind. This was the time to do it. The probe she'd experienced did not give her adequate proof that the captain was being subjected to external manipulation. She steeled herself for his reaction to her test, hating herself for hoping she was right and he was compromised -- the alternative and its ramifications were less pleasant for her to contemplate.

"Geordi, you're dismissed to your duties," she exclaimed, giving him a look to which he responded with a nod before leaving. She crossed gazes with Gregory, Ward and finally Ben, then met Jean-Luc's eyes again. "The Asili are deceiving you, Captain."

He went still but for a raised eyebrow, a heartbreaking sight for her. How he could look so normal yet be so off continually wounded her now, especially as the disparity grew more apparent to her. "They are."

"They aren't interested in diplomatic relations. I don't think the Khevlin were, either."

He crossed his arms and made no move to take a seat. "Explain."

"You've read my reports. You know what's happened. I know the Asili claim that their actions were performed while under the Alliance's command and that now they wish to ally themselves with the Federation, but they are lying when they state their intentions. I believe their real intent is invasion."

"Invasion," he repeated, as if considering it. "I don't think so."

"But I do. I sense it. If I couldn't I would still question it. Whether it is on the Randra Alliance's behalf or not is not clear, but I believe that this is their way of getting an intact fleet of their ships as far into Federation space as possible. My recommendation is that we transmit the arranged signal to the fleet and have them meet the Asili once they have passed into Federation space. There is adequate uninhabited space -- collateral damage could easily be avoided if we engage them between sectors -- "

"Wait," the captain said, holding out a hand. "Wait. What fleet?"

This point was crucial. Emotions meant nothing -- the human mind could compartmentalize too easily. She remembered too well the thorough brainwashing the Romulans had done on Geordi. He remembered it, too, which had been why he'd been first to side with her in her theories. She kept her hands behind her back, her face carefully composed, allowing only a little concern to show through. "What fleet? Sir, the fleet, of course. The one you. . . ." She kept her pretense carefully intact, throwing in a nervous glance at the CMO.

Dr. Mengis caught the hint. They had discussed this as a possible tactic initially, after the first mention of their captain being suborned by the K'korll. "Are you saying, sir, that you can't remember? We were of the impression that your memory loss only involved personal details."

Agitation stirred beneath his calm. Jean-Luc flicked his gaze from Mengis to Deanna. She swallowed, took a moment to arrange her thoughts, and said, "We did agree that if you proved to display memory loss in duty-related matters that you would step down for the sake of the mission and the ship."

They hadn't agreed, or spoken of the possibility. This was a subtle way of testing for anterograde amnesia. There had been one such instance in deLio's logs; he had informed the captain twice of crew changes and the captain had been surprised both times. If he was forgetting things and trying to conceal that symptom, he might give this lie the benefit of the doubt to further hide his difficulties. He stared at her openly now, mouth open. The thoughts crowded his mind -- she sensed him so easily, in spite of the inhibitor. He was close enough and familiar enough that the drug didn't matter.

"There's a fleet," he said, still trying to work through it.

"Do you remember Admiral Carter? The discussion you had with Admiral Farok? The strategy sessions with the other captains, the orders you left me? Do you remember the last resort strategy?" Deanna didn't dare look at anyone else.

At last, the frown. A shake of the head. He glanced at the viewports to his left, shook his head again, and ran both hands along the sides of his head. "I don't remember. But it confuses me that no mention of any of these things has been made until now."

"That was part of your orders, sir. Most of the crew don't know all the details."

"But there is no mention of this in my own logs."

He'd reviewed more than his personal logs. Of course he would. Now the other officers stared directly at her -- she could feel their eyes, their shock, their dread, and for a few moments everything was still as space. She kept her eyes on the captain's, as steadily as he had initially looked at her. The silence drew long. Finally, she nodded.

"There is no fleet. We couldn't be certain of you, sir." She sensed the others relaxing in the pause. "You are aware, of course, of regulations regarding the possibility of external influence on the captain."

"Referring to my time among the K'korll -- yes, I see your point. So you manufactured this imaginary fleet and threatened the Asili indirectly to ascertain if I was somehow being controlled or monitored telepathically?"

"Yes. And now that it's proved that they are in fact not able to do so, we can discuss the real plans for invasion." She sat down and folded her hands before her on the table, looking up at him expectantly.

He blinked. If she couldn't tell he experienced turmoil beneath his calm, she'd think he hadn't understood the implications of her final remark. Would he offer to step down now? Would he bluff and try to understand what she was talking about? Nesting test within test this way wasn't something she'd spoken to the others about -- it came as a last-minute choice, out of a desire to be very sure of whether or not the Alliance had an active link to him. She spent a few moments being too aware of the confusion of the other officers, the ships she knew were following the *Enterprise*, and her heart pounding in her chest.

"Invasion?" Ward exclaimed at last, voicing what everyone wanted to know.

"We believed this information should be on a need-to-know basis," she said smoothly.

"Given the nature of the mission, it was best," Jean-Luc said. She reached for the controls set in the table at her right hand, masking her alarm. He'd chosen to bluff. She could sense the anger and the intent to lie. Next question -- was he testing her, or was he responding because he was being influenced by whatever the K'korll might have done?

"Starfleet Intelligence reports increased activity along Federation-Alliance borders," she began, hoping she could continue to sound normal. "Six months ago, a Federation vessel disappeared while conducting a survey of a nebula in an unclaimed sector. Three months ago, one of that vessel's crew escaped what he described as a slave labor camp. He described an entire colony of humans living in bondage and providing manual labor for Randra activities, serving in a wide variety of positions and supplying technical expertise -- from the details of his report, Starfleet believes that a full-scale invasion is planned within the year. The *Enterprise* was sent to Khevlin with full awareness that the Alliance wanted the ship and its crew intact to further those ends, and if we had been in danger of capture I would have been forced to order self-destruct."

She measured reactions as she embellished the story of the missing ship. Ward coughed -- he suddenly wasn't so tense as before. Recognizing the lies, perhaps.

Jean-Luc accepted the explanation as it sounded -- an explanation to the rest of the officers, rather than directed solely at him as it was -- and said, "I hope that we will have repairs completed soon?"

"We'll have to drop out of warp to finish. I've scheduled EVA work on the hull for tonight, during the time we will be aboard the Asili vessel for the celebration." She turned to him and put on her most serious face. "I suggest that you find an excuse not to attend. We shouldn't take any risks. Since you haven't divulged the details of the invasion to even me, you shouldn't take any more chances. I wish you hadn't overridden my suggestion not to beam down to Khevlin."

He nodded curtly. "Commander, we'll discuss this further in my ready room. Dismissed." He strode purposefully out. The doors snapped shut behind him.

"Commander," Ward exclaimed, snapping to attention.

"I have to be sure. I didn't sense anything that might suggest he's being controlled. But we can't wait around for him to verify that suspicion -- we have to get out of here."

"He was angry when I met him in the lift," Davidson exclaimed. "Deanna, I think he's getting worse. He couldn't seem to talk about what was going on, even to deny his feelings. I saw what I believe is the beginning of a tic."

"Not now, Ben, please. We'll talk after the ship is out of danger. I'm going to meet the captain. Stations, everyone."

Counselor Davidson was the last one out. He stared at her for a moment, uncertain of something, then made the decision -- to not speak. He left without a word.

She was alone, just as she'd felt since the initial attack at Khevlin. Jean-Luc had often felt this way, she realized, thinking back to the days of the 1701-D and all the difficult decisions he'd made. The times she had sensed him alone in his ready room or his quarters. She had her family in the balance. Her captain was behaving unpredictably, with mixed emotions that puzzled her. Her children would suffer whatever fate the ship did as a result of her orders.

She shook herself out of it -- she had more important things to do right then than indulge in personal angst. The captain, the one she had had before Khevlin, would expect her to follow through. He would expect her to challenge these changes in him.

When she arrived on the bridge and made her way to the ready room, she felt Natalia's attention on her, but didn't look at the lieutenant. Jean-Luc attacked the instant the ready room doors closed behind her. "What was that about? What is this about a fleet?"

"I told you we couldn't be sure security hadn't been compromised," she said casually, keeping the desk and chairs between them.

His glaring subsided, but only by a few degrees. "Another test! Damn you, what are you doing that in front of the senior staff for? What if they believed - "

"The point was to do it with them present, sir. This is a critical point - we are all aware that you may have been compromised. We wanted to know what you would do."

"Now you know - don't do that to me again!" He leaned across the desk, hands flat, arms locked. "And you can tell them I only went along with the second round of nonsense out of curiosity to see what *you* were up to."

"I do believe all that we said about the Asili, Captain. There's something wrong. All of their behavior has been suspicious."

"Not unlike your own," he shot back.

She fixed a stone-cold glare on him until he settled down somewhat. "You overlook a number of possibilities, Captain. You are a strong person, very determined when you want to be, and you're capable of incredible sacrifices for people you care about. It has occurred to me that you may have forgotten your wife out of the need to protect her from some telepathic incursion you were fighting. If you believed everything you value most was being threatened and that you might somehow become an instrument of the enemy in their destruction, you would do anything you could to prevent it. Unless you were lying to me after the Borg?"

She referred to something he'd said in counseling, his wanting to die because he had no way of fighting the control of the Collective to prevent their using him against Starfleet. He sat down slowly, the suggestion having its impact as he considered.

"You're right. I would do anything -- I remember feeling threatened and out of control, with the K'korll. I remember very little other than that. You honestly think they've done something to me that might threaten Starfleet security?"

"We need objective proof. The doctor has been unable to provide it." She swallowed and put her hands behind her back, trying to conceal the fidgeting of fingers. The desire to confront was becoming too hard to deny. That she did suspect, that her certainty of *something* being wrong with him grew each time she spoke with him, should go into her logs and not her reports to him. It wasn't her place to analyze his mental state any more. She could state her suspicions to the counselor; he would follow up on it.

"You sense the Asili are untrustworthy."

"I don't trust them," she said, skirting around the half-question.

"Because you sense subterfuge, as you did with the Khevlin before the attack."

His damned logs. He'd been listening to too many of them. It would be impossible to identify anything duty-related that he'd forgotten. "Yes."

"So we may be caught up in the middle of a trap. They may be taking advantage of us."

She nodded stiffly.

"And, you still don't trust me," he said with a sigh, slumping back against his chair. "Because you still have no objective proof that I'm not a brainwashed Trojan horse."

Her eyes prickled. Backing a step, she mastered the tears and inhaled sharply. "If you will excuse me, sir, I have work to do."

"Deanna," he said, then paused and seemed to study her in search of something. Within him, another shifting took place. She noticed it this time, and paid closer attention. "If the circumstances were different I would take action against you. Don't deceive me that way again. No tests." The forced, tight quality of his voice was back. She'd heard it that morning, too, when they'd argued.

"Can you prove to me that you're not as you say, a 'Trojan horse'?"

He gazed at her seriously, still leaning on his desk. "Can you prove that I am?" She hated the strident bite his voice took on. It hurt to hear it. Genuine hostility, without basis, backed it.

"How did you escape the influence of the K'korll, if you're so certain they were trying to manipulate you? From everything I've heard about them, they're strong telepaths. They corrected your paralysis and considerable brain damage." Though not all of the damage. She took a step forward, pensive. "You insist that they wanted information from you. Why do you believe they would bother to allow you to know this?"

"I've dealt with telepaths before."

"You've dealt with Vulcans and Betazoids. The K'korll are neither. deLio tells me they have no visible mouth, no spoken communication, no ears, apparently. That would seem to indicate usage of telepathy on a level unheard of in Federation telepathic species. You haven't dealt with telepaths like them. You have no way of knowing whether they have ethics concerning offworlders -- if they use telepathic communication exclusively, why would they flinch from using it with offworlders? Which they did. deLio spoke with them that way. Human minds are wide open, no barriers, unless they work with a telepath to put some there. If the K'korll could converse with a L'norim, who show even less telepathic ability than humans -- "

"The doctor found nothing wrong," he snapped. "Nothing. I cannot remember my family but that shouldn't keep me from doing my duty -- I review logs, I know the details of the mission, and you, Commander, need to remember that I'm in command of this vessel! I know -- "

" -- better than to take that tone with me," she inserted savagely. "You've never high-handed your first officers. You never talked down to Will. You never talked to Data or me that way. Operating your ship has always been done through cooperation, not dictatorship, and though you gave orders when necessary, at this moment, in this circumstance, you *would be* asking questions and assessing options, soliciting suggestions from your officers. But you're not. Do you still contend that nothing is wrong with you?"

"What *about* this situation? The Asili are moving into Federation space to pursue a treaty, possibly membership, and want to leave the Alliance behind. It's a major coup that will remove a significant portion of the Randra Alliance's military might -- hopefully it will make them more open to diplomacy. There are Alliance ambassadors on Deneva right now." He glared a challenge at her.

She sensed what lay beneath his anger. Her heart almost stopped. In the very act of defying her assertion that something was wrong with him, he revealed to her that there was. Whatever this duality was, it was getting stronger each time it manifested itself.

"I believe you said you had work to do, Commander?" he exclaimed harshly, raising his head -- and behind the anger in his eyes she saw the glimmer of despair, the smallest outward indication of what she sensed behind his wall of rage.

She stared into his eyes, trying to reach him, but nothing. The ability to communicate through the bond remained dead as it had been since he'd been injured. "I understand, Jean-Luc," she murmured, turning to go.

This wasn't like the Borg. She could blame no nanoprobes for this, and his presence was there, whole, awake and functioning -- somehow there were two of him. Was the amnesia one of the symptoms of a trauma on the mend, and the odd duality just another symptom of the same? Or was the duality developing and strengthening as time passed, and could they expect the amnesia to worsen as well? Was this part of an intentional manipulation or a mistake the K'korll made?

Everyone on the bridge was staring at her, she realized. She moved to the captain's chair. It felt like she moved in fog, like she had been enveloped in padding, and she sensed the muddle of anxiety and fear from those in the know, Greenman at the helm, Carlisle rising from the center seat to surrender it, deLio looking down from tactical. And the counselor, also rising, anticipating.

And Geordi. The engineer came down from the engineering console. Suddenly she was surrounded by them, including Mendez, who had been sitting at ops.

"The scans are completed," deLio said. "All their equipment is inferior to ours. All they have in their favor is their greater numbers. We are within fifteen minutes of Federation space."

She looked at Greenman, the only one other than two ensigns in the back still at her station. "Warp seven. Now."

Natalia jerked forward and her fingers flitted across the keys as if that particular combination of commands were executed often, and Deanna knew from this that the lieutenant had been practicing those movements in her head many times while she sat there waiting for the order. And how did Greenman know? Ward had to have briefed the bridge crew. He had briefed them as a good first officer would.

The thought pierced her to the quick. A good first officer, for her, as the captain had been left out of the decision, relieved of duty in every way but the formal one.

They left her alone in the middle of the bridge -- returning to their stations, not meaning abandonment, on a purely intellectual level she realized this and concurred. She should not want someone to validate her decisions. It hadn't happened to her in a long time. It could only be because of the captain's condition, and beyond that the perceived loss of her husband.

She slowed the ship to warp five and kept Mendez busy running scans. She knew what had happened from the Asili's perspective -- the *Enterprise* had jumped off their sensors and not reappeared, even after it slowed, because of the exponential nature of warp speed. In the few minutes at warp seven they had covered more distance than they had in the past two days at warp four while pacing the Asili fleet. In seconds, they had crossed into the Federation and then some.

"Can we get a live feed to Command?" she asked.

"Not yet." deLio, when she turned to look at him, was leaning over his console but his green eyes were focused on her. "There appears to have been considerable traffic in this area. One of the subspace relays fails to appear on our sensors. Perhaps destroyed in an attempt to prevent communication."

"Sir -- " Mendez exclaimed, then fell silent and frowned at his board. "I saw a reading, but it was gone as soon as I saw it. Behind us."

"Reduce speed, warp three," Deanna snapped. "Yellow alert. Geordi, are you sure about the top speed of the Asili vessels?"

"Commander," Ben said, warning in his half-whisper, and she knew he meant the captain. The yellow alert would inform him something was going on.

"I'm positive," Geordi said. "None of those vessels in that fleet could catch up to us."

"Confirmed," Mendez said, tensing in his seat. "Unidentified vessel -- they've got good sensors, when we reduced speed they altered course and compensated until we couldn't detect them. Took them sixty-seven seconds."

"Helm, all stop and hold position. Counselor, come with me. Ward, if that vessel reappears go to red alert and try to hail them."

Ben was at her back as she headed for the ready room, leaving a bridge full of anxious officers behind her.

#########^~

He knew who would be there when the door opened, and wasn't disappointed. Picard stood to face them over his desk.

"Captain," Troi began, then ducked her head and stepped aside as the counselor came over to stand beside her. Picard almost sniffed at it -- she didn't have what it took to do it. She'd make the counselor do it.

He'd tried to re-open his logs and failed. The only way that would happen would be if key members of his senior staff saw fit to block his access, and when the ship went to high warp he knew there had been a change of command. For the first time in his long career, he'd been declared unfit and forced to step down.

It looked like Davidson didn't have it in him, either; the man glanced at Troi. But no, there was something different -- that was appraisal, not appeal. Troi raised her head and a swallow played up and down the muscles of her throat.

"I'm sure you already know why we're here," she said, her eyes apologizing already. "Whatever happened to you while you were in the custody of the K'korll saved your life. But there is still something yet to be dealt with, and the counselor, the doctor, and I all agree -- "

"Mutiny," he snapped. The fury peaked and then dwindled again. "There is nothing wrong with me, Commander."

A long moment, while she stared. "I think you know better than that, Captain."

"I know that since I've come back, you have all viewed me with unfounded suspicion!"

Troi caught his eyes, and in doing so brought him to a standstill. He struggled for words while trying to force down the anger he couldn't seem to control any more. In the silence his own breathing sounded loud. Or was that Davidson, hovering on the periphery?

"What did you discuss with Ze, when you went to see her?" Troi asked softly.

It brought the anger to a climax and freed his tongue. "As you were!"

"That's what you said to Natalia," Troi murmured. "Remember?"

"What?" He tried not to lose the tenuous control he'd regained and feared failure as once again, his throat closed and the anger rose.

"You spoke to Natalia last night. You were angry with her."

"Nonsense! I was in my quarters, alone. I went to bed early."

Troi's eyes widened. She glanced at Davidson quickly and straightened. "We're relieving you of duty, Captain. You show symptoms of mental instability and the amnesia is proving to be more pervasive than -- "

"No! NO! Out, all of you," he shouted, unable to take his eyes off the K'Korll standing behind Troi. The creature had come in while she spoke, drifted to a halt, and watched him with gleaming black eyes. "Especially you, get off my ship!"

Troi stared at his hand, with which he'd gestured at the alien, then at his face. Alarm -- what the hell was she frightened of now? She should be staring at the alien, not him.

"Captain -- "

"OUT!" A slashing gesture with his arm made Davidson jump. Picard looked around wildly, trying to see where the K'korll had gotten to -- damned thing must be hiding.

"Captain?" Troi asked loudly. He blinked, met her eyes -- her face had changed. The K'korll had mimicked her voice and put on her uniform. Devious bastard.

Pain in his temple. Pressing his palm against the spot, he bumped into something and discovered he'd backed into the wall -- something struck him from behind. Pain. Redness, all around, searing pain in his eyes -- someone was shouting about sickbay and transporter and everything faded to black.

#########

"You're going to sickbay?" Deanna asked Ben as the captain was beamed away. She had the urge to re-hang the picture that Jean-Luc had knocked off the wall. Trivial.

"Right away. Davidson to Mengis -- Greg, I'd suggest a tranquilizer -- " The ready room doors shut behind him.

Breathing room. Closing her eyes, Deanna established a light trance and meditated until the red alert shook her out of it. She burst onto the bridge and asked for an update with a pointed look at Carlisle.

"No response to hails. They're coming right at us."

"Still one ship?"

"Yes, sir," deLio said. "They're dropping out of warp."

"On screen." The view changed to a compact, silver-hulled vessel like a large teardrop, flat across the top and pointing away from them. Deanna glanced over Mendez' shoulder. "Readings?"

"Confused," Mendez exclaimed, the frown audible. His fingers danced around in different combinations. "They don't appear to be shielded or armed. But the energy readings aren't consistent with typical warp engines -- more like Romulan. If it's a singularity-driven engine, it's got better containment than a warbird's. The tachyon emissions are a quarter of what a Romulan warbird would emit."

"Life signs?"

"As Mr. Mendez says, it's difficult to tell. I would say from the pattern of frequency shifts that there is an advanced jamming device in operation, purposely confusing our sensors."

Deanna dropped her gaze, turned her attention inward, and at once the odd sensation of static increased. The presence was unmistakable. Presences. Three of them. Working together, static coalescing to a pointed multiple consciousness --

"Sir? Sir?"

"There appears to be no armament or -- "

"Commander?"

She held out a hand and the bridge fell quiet. Good. The distant voices had been bothering her, now she could listen, fall into the deep peace pulling her -- pulling? Whispering. Promising. Holding out something she hoped for.

Then she remembered her nightmares, the connections with Jean-Luc, the dreams that were not hers, and brought all her willpower to bear on resurrecting them. Was this the elusive other presence Selar had remarked upon? The doubt leavened the mixture of minds and freed her enough for her to realize how close she had come to being overtaken. She remembered the nightmare of Locutus. Jean-Luc must have been desperate. She wasn't, however, as now that she had been distracted from the lure of their siren's song, whatever hold they had on her disintegrated. A wrenching pull and she was free, the others falling away and falling apart.

She inhaled deeply and opened her eyes. The small of her back had tightened into a hard knot in the usual place, but worse than she remembered it ever getting, and she was out of breath. Her palms hurt; bringing up her hands to look, she realized that her nails had pierced the skin.

"Status," she exclaimed.

"They returned to Alliance space," Ward said. "We cancelled the red alert. Commander?" A hand at her back -- Ward was supporting her, for some reason. She took a step, just a few inches to the side, and found out why. Her knees buckled.

"Let's get you to sickbay," Geordi said from close at hand. He took her arm. She pulled free and regained her balance, then attempted a steady walk toward the ready room. They followed her to the door, Ward informing deLio he had the bridge as they went in.

"You should let the doctor -- "

"I need to sit, Ward, and we need to talk. It's not what you think." She went to the desk and sank into the high-backed chair. Odd fantasies of Jean-Luc whispered through her thoughts, flashes of imagery from the shared dream experiences she had had while he hallucinated on a distant world. The contact with the alien minds must have something to do with it, and she felt exposed and violated -- had the 'weakness' been a deception? Had they sifted through her mind for useful information while distracting her, leaving her with eddies of fragmented memories?

"How long was I out?"

"About twenty minutes. Greg sent Selar up. She said it was some sort of telepathic phenomena and that we shouldn't pull you out of it too suddenly."

"Where is Selar?" The thought of being in a stupor for twenty minutes on the bridge alarmed her.

"She was right there with you the whole time. Did something Vulcan with her fingers on your temple and stepped back, just a few minutes before you opened your eyes. She went in the observation lounge." Ward hurried back to the alcove and asked the replicator for tea. "Want something to eat?"

"Preset four, if you would." She heard the tone and seconds later Ward was back with a bowl of vegetables she knew he wouldn't recognize. He left the tea beside the bowl and joined Geordi, sitting in front of her with the desk between them.

"Troi to Mendez. Lieutenant, search all sensor logs since we arrived at Khevlin -- look for anything that might indicate the presence of that ship we just confronted."

"That will take some time, sir," Mendez replied. She sensed his distress and surprise at the assignment.

"That's fine. Just don't take any longer than the time it takes us to restore a live feed with Command. Troi out." Deanna scooped vegetables with the spoon and didn't look at either Geordi or Ward. "I suspect that ship carried whoever was influencing the captain. Also that the captain will recover from some of his symptoms, now that they are putting some distance -- come in," she called at the sound of the annunciator.

Selar entered, her medical tricorder held before her in both hands, and came to attention next to Ward's chair. "Commander Troi. It's good to see you have recovered."

"You melded with me," Deanna said.

"I ask your forgiveness. I did not intend breach of privacy. I became concerned that you were not able to break free and initiated a light contact to ascertain your condition. You were already freeing yourself from the trance, so I broke contact and retreated to re-establish my own shields."

"I wasn't expressing dissatisfaction. Did you sense the others?"

Selar tilted her head in the direction of her raised eyebrow. "Briefly."

"Would you say there's a chance that they are the same beings you sensed before, when you and I spoke in sickbay?"

"No. The minds with which you have made contact are similar to our own. The impression I retain from the prior incident you mention was of a more. . . alien nature." Her hesitance probably reflected the same difficulty Deanna often had -- Standard was a poor language to use in discussing mental phenomena. Vulcan or Betazoid would have been better, but she was certain Selar had never learned Betazoid, and Deanna's minimal Vulcan vocabulary didn't include words useful in describing mind melds.

"We are dealing with two sets of telepaths," Deanna said. "One set unable to overpower even a mere half-breed Betazoid. They would have, if they could."

"Something tells me this is the point where the captain would scowl at you," Ward said. "Mere?"

"I don't have the energy to mince words. They wouldn't have to be powerful if their target were human, and if they were careful enough to use the power of suggestion to avoid detection. The Asili were nervous about telepaths in general. I am seeing that the Alliance is not large as it is without reason -- brute force is not the way to build a cohesive institution. Better to manipulate one's adversaries into compliance that said adversary believes is their own decision, yes?"

Selar inclined her head in Deanna's direction. "Shall I inform the doctor that you will be in sickbay shortly?"

"Yes, thank you, Doctor."

After Selar was gone, Geordi leaned forward. "The captain?"

"I don't know. The encounter just now has drained me -- I'm feeling rather numb."

"No, I mean you relieved him of duty. I know it had to be done, but -- are you all right? I know how I'd feel in your place." Geordi meant well. She could see the worry in his face.

"I'm not going to keep saying 'I'm fine' every five minutes. So why don't you just assume that I am, until I'm not?" She put down the spoon, hearing herself as she sounded, and smiled ruefully. "I'm doing my job, Geordi. I knew what I was getting into. Let's just get through this and get our ship in for those repairs she needs. Would you help Mendez, please? And while you're at it, look for any other oddities in those readings. Ward, I'm going to sickbay, and I can guess that Gregory will remove me from duty for the remainder of the day, but I want to know the instant we can contact Command on a secure channel."

The doors opened without warning, startling all three of them upright. Ben Davidson rushed up to the desk, his brown hair mussed as if he'd been running his fingers through it. "You're not going to believe this," he blurted, obviously still finding whatever it was unbelievable himself. "He doesn't remember us relieving him of command."

"He didn't remember talking to Natalia, either. There's obviously a trigger embedded -- "

"No, no, wait," Ben exclaimed. "That's not all. He doesn't remember you. Again. He recalls the Asili and the arrangements he made with them, he recognized me, but he asked for Data."

There should be a pattern. Something about this should make sense. But the struggle with other minds had drained her, the strain of dealing with a captain who had irrational fits of anger was wearing her down, and as if to remind her of other obligations, the baby chose that moment to settle under her diaphragm and box at it.

"We have another problem," Ward said slowly. Geordi and Ben looked at him, and Deanna thought she knew what he would say. He didn't disappoint her. "We have another commanding officer to suspect. We don't know what they did to her."

"Unlike the captain, I was not injured and I am mostly Betazoid and considerably more aware of what goes on in my own mind. But I'll concede the point. Selar melded with me not long ago, before this incident -- another meld will help us rule out changes or attempts to brainwash me. You have the bridge, Mr. Carlisle," she said, forcing her weary limbs to take her from the comfortable chair to face sickbay and whatever the doctor had to say.

 

~@~#~@~#~@~#~@~


	3. Ultramachinations

the trick of finding what you didn't lose  
(existing's tricky:but to live's a gift)  
the teachable imposture of always  
arriving at the place you never left

(and i refer to thinking)rests upon  
a dismal misconception;namely that  
some neither ape nor angel called a man  
is measured by his quote eye cue unquote

Much better than which,every woman who's  
(despite the ultramachinations of  
some loveless infraworld)a woman knows;  
and certain men quite possibly may have

shall we say guessed?  
                              "we shall" quoth gifted she:  
and played the hostess to my morethanme

-e.e. cummings

###############

"I suppose you're going to tell me I can't return to the bridge?"

Mengis studied him with hard green eyes and turned back to the readouts over the bed. "Captain, I'm not finished."

The door opened, the doctor turned, and Picard frowned to see the counselor, Davidson, enter the room with a woman. What was the counselor up to this time?

But Davidson hung back, glancing around with worried eyes, and the woman--a commander, Betazoid, and familiar somehow--came to the biobed. She gave the doctor a pointed look; Mengis retreated, herding his two assistants with hand gestures to the other end of sickbay and through a door.

A full commander. There should be only one of those on board. Unless this was a visitor?

"The counselor tells me you have difficulty remembering certain details." She had a foreign accent, one of the more musical he'd heard.

"Who are you?"

The question made her flinch. "You don't remember me?"

"Should I?"

She glanced at Davidson, faltered backward a few steps, and wobbled on weak legs after Mengis. Something about the set of her shoulders and angle of her head told Picard that she'd just suffered a terrible blow.

"I don't understand," he said, dropping from the biobed and tugging his uniform straight.

Davidson approached and regarded him with sad eyes. "Captain, I need to know how much you remember about the mission."

"Well, all of it. The Khevlin were attacked through some misunderstanding. I was injured, but the Khevil sent me to a healer, after which the Asili brought me back to the *Enterprise*.* I decided that the Asili needed more immediate attention than the Khevil--we could return to Khevlin after establishing an agreement with the Asili, after all. We're on our way to Federation space, for further diplomatic talks. If we stayed in Alliance space we would be in danger from non-aligned clans of Asili who are still loyal to the Alliance."

"And what do you remember about your first officer's actions in all these events?"

"Only what I've read in the reports. The battle over Khevlin, the departure, the defense of Penaias, the return to Alliance space to search for the away team."

"Did you discuss these events with the first officer?" Davidson kept watching Picard's face intently, making him nervous.

"I haven't been back that long. I haven't seen the commander yet."

"You just saw her."

Picard stared at the door through which everyone else had gone, hovering between breaths for a moment. "Her."

"She's your first officer. Do you remember her name?"

Picard shook his head. Unbelievable. Where had Data gone?

"Captain. Look at me." Davidson captured his attention only because of the urgency in his voice. "How long has it been since you returned to the ship?"

"Oh, I don't know, about an hour. Perhaps less."

Davidson shook his head. "You've been back for three days. You've also been relieved of duty. We believe that you have been manipulated telepathically. You're in sickbay because we confronted you in the ready room and you lost consciousness."

None of this made sense. He couldn't remember any of it. Running a hand over his head, he scowled and tried to detect any gaps in his memory, anything he couldn't explain, and came up with nothing. "You're sure about this?"

Davidson set his mouth in a straight, firm line. He nodded and kept eye contact, even leaned close, intent on convincing. "You refused to explain anything to us when you came back, made promises on the Federation's behalf that, in the face of our lack of intelligence on the Asili as a species, made little sense, and you've been--well. You had a partial amnesia, mostly where your family was concerned."

"What family?" Picard snapped.

"That's what I mean," Davidson continued, dropping his gaze at last. "You're married."

"Nonsense!"

But the counselor was pointing now where he was looking, and Picard blinked when he followed Davidson's gaze--a ring. A wedding band. Sliding it down his finger revealed a pale strip of skin and slight indentation in the flesh. Obviously, the ring had been there a long time. It wouldn't slide over the knuckle.

"Dr. Mengis said your fingers had swollen somewhat," Davidson murmured. "A mild reaction to the food you were eating while among the Asili."

"Who?"

"Sir?"

"Who is she? My wife?" He almost called for Q--what the devil was this? Had he slipped through a singularity? Was he dreaming?

"Let's go to my office," Davidson said.

"Counselor, I want to know--"

"In my office. Please."

############

When Deanna reached her quarters, Guinan was waiting for her inside.

"I've made you some tea. Are you hungry?"

"No, thanks, Guinan. I'm sorry I haven't come to see you, I've been--"

"Busy. I know. Sit down and drink before it gets cold."

Deanna obeyed, too weary to do anything else. The numb feeling persisted; Mengis had commented on the imbalance of the neurotransmitters in her brain and the all-time psylosynine low she'd hit. The tea Guinan shoved across the table steamed and sent up wisps of weedy and leafy scent. Unrecognizable, but Deanna sipped and enjoyed. Guinan knew her tastes well, even her preferences while pregnant.

"You're in shock," Guinan said.

"And I couldn't sense anything if I tried. The doctor released me to rest. I'll do that after I finish this."

"How about the captain?"

Deanna shook her head. Saying anything would reduce her to a sobbing mess.

"I came here to talk to you about him, but if you're tired I should just go."

"What did you want to tell me?" Usually Guinan only spoke up when it was very important.

"Dr. Mengis sent someone to get me this morning, with the instructions to distract the captain. Keep him off the bridge as long as possible."

"Oh. That was because of me. I requested that he be distracted for a while to give me a chance to take care of something he shouldn't know about, because of the possible breach of security he represented."

"That's what I gathered," Guinan said, raising her cup for a sip. "I didn't mind. But when I caught up with him, I had an interesting conversation with him that I thought you would like to know about. He was angry because everyone seemed suspicious of him. I told him I knew something was wrong, and he needed to understand you're only doing your duty as best you can."

"Did he take it well?"

"He seemed at a loss for a bit. Then he said he needed Counselor Troi, but he didn't have her."

Deanna took a larger sip of her cooling tea. "He needs Counselor Troi?"

"That's what he said." Guinan gazed at her, lips pursed gently.

"Did he explain why he thought he needed Counselor Troi?"

"No. But I think I know why."

Deanna wished her eyelids didn't feel like durasteel shutters. "Not because he likes counseling."

Guinan looked down into her tea. "He needed someone to understand how he felt, even though he couldn't describe it. He needed someone he trusts."

"But he knew I wasn't the counselor any more. You said you'd discussed me with him--he didn't seem confused about my current position?" Deanna pushed aside her cup with a few ounces of tea left in it, unable to finish. Her stomach had rebelled suddenly even to that minimal amount. She'd probably wake up hungry later, but she knew if she ate anything now, it wouldn't stay down.

"No, he didn't. But he asked specifically for Counselor Troi. The only difference between you and the counselor is your job. Right?"

"There are other differences--because the job is different, I behave differently. And because there is the off-duty relationship I can't be. . . ."

Guinan's stillness distracted her from further rambling. Dark eyes, set mouth, hands folded on the table--the El-Aurian gave off no emotion Deanna could sense, yet she thought Guinan was expecting her to see something obvious and she must be missing the point.

There were many differences between the counselor she had been and the first officer she now was. She couldn't go back to that now if she tried--how could she? All she'd ever been was herself, and the changes she'd made in her life were an irrevocable part of her now, especially motherhood and the hajira bond. In spite of the apparent severance of it, the latter had altered her perception of her own abilities. Not that Jean-Luc would understand --

Deanna inhaled sharply. "Guinan, he doesn't remember me now."

"He remembers Counselor Troi."

"No, he doesn't even remember that. He's been relieved of duty, and taken to sickbay after he passed out in the ready room. When he awakened, he didn't remember who I was. Something's happened to him since you spoke with him, and I believe it has something to do with outside telepathic control. So I can't even try to use Counselor Troi with him now, he doesn't remember who that was."

Guinan glanced around, suddenly at a loss, distress pulling her lips taut. She cleared her throat, finally met Deanna's gaze, and said, "I'm sorry to hear that."

"At least we're out of Alliance territory now. I think we're clear of whatever control they had him under. He's with the counselor now. Perhaps he'll remember shortly."

"So he remembers and forgets again?" Guinan folded her hands in her lap.

"Repeatedly. Usually it's details about his senior officers that he forgets. He hadn't forgotten me so completely before--I hope that doesn't mean he's getting worse."

"Just the senior officers?"

"Typically he forgets that they've moved on. He thought I was still counselor, until this time. Now I don't appear to exist." She shook her head sadly. "I don't know what to think. Traumatic amnesia usually clears up fairly quickly. All the telepathic activity must have had some sort of side effect -- but the symptoms are so odd. Why forget just the status of officers?"

"Perhaps it means something. If it's so specific, it might be intentional."

"But what purpose could it serve?" Deanna asked. Her head was beginning to ache.

"You may find out. Then again, they are alien to us--perhaps they have their own reasons and we'll never know. Would you like me to take Yves tonight? So you can sleep?"

"Yes, please. I appreciate it. I'll come by if I wake up before his bedtime and spend a little time with him."

"I'll pick him up from the nursery. Let me know if you need anything." Guinan stood, moved silently around the table, and laid a hand on Deanna's head, barely putting pressure on her hair, stroking gently, maternal and concerned. She withdrew and went without looking back.

Unable to find motivation to get up, Deanna remained slumped at the table. Meditation would put her to sleep; she should get to the bed and at least take off her boots before attempting it. By the time she mustered the energy to rise, the annunciator went off.

"Come in," she called, straightening and wishing her back didn't ache.

Davidson came in and did a double-take. She must look worse than she thought. "I'm sorry, I know you're tired and--"

"What is it, Ben?"

He didn't have to reply. Jean-Luc followed him in, cautious and curious--he glanced around the room, then studied her as if sizing up a possible opponent.

"Captain, we really should go. She looks exhausted. We should do this tomorrow."

He ignored Davidson and crossed the floor in slow, steady steps. Taking her left hand in his, he studied the rings, his and hers, and then scrutinized her face. This was different than before. No wild emotions or visible reaction.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"No." She pulled her hand away and went around him.

"Out," he ordered.

Stunned, she glanced back and realized he'd spoken to Ben Davidson, who now looked to her with questions and alarm in his eyes. She tried to sense what was going on, with little success.

"We'll talk later, Counselor," Jean-Luc exclaimed.

"Commander?"

Deanna swallowed, trying to think coherently. "Thank you, Counselor."

Ben had reservations, she could tell from his expression, but he went. She continued on her way to the bathroom. When she came out, she found Jean-Luc studying pictures on the wall.

"What are you doing?" he asked when she headed for the door.

"Going to take a nap. The counselor was right, I'm exhausted, and we can talk later."

"Deanna?"

She hesitated, then turned back to stand in the door she'd just passed through. "Jean-Luc?" He indicated the bed with a nod. "I'm going to stay in other quarters for now. You don't remember me."

"Not everything, no. But that doesn't change the fact that these are also your quarters."

"I'm not comfortable here. We'll talk again in the morning, all right?"

He reached her and touched her arm. "Wait. Please."

"The doctor ordered me to rest, and frankly, I'm very happy to comply. It's nothing to do with you, all I want to do right now is sleep." She looked at his face as she spoke. His eyes, intense and concerned, caught her.

"The counselor told me you relieved me of duty. He also tells me we have children, and that you and I have worked together for a long time."

"I can't talk to you right now," she exclaimed, hardening her voice. "I have to go."

"Please don't walk out," he said. She hadn't heard that softer tone of voice in a while. Much better than anger. "I won't bother you. Please."

"Why does it matter so much to you?" She hated the way her control was caving in on itself and tears were so near the surface. Her voice had that about-to-cry wobble. "I'll come back when I wake up. All right?"

She backed through the door. He followed, catching her hands.

"Why didn't you tell me about Ze when you returned to the ship?" she asked. "What did you talk about with her?"

He blinked, brow wrinkling, and responded to her test without the anger she feared. "About the Alliance, and how the Asili want to escape the oppression that's forced them into serving others' interests. I don't see why you would be concerned about that. We're well on the way to a treaty with them. When the fleet arrives in Federation space more discussions and arrangements can be--Deanna, you don't look well. Perhaps I should take you to sickbay."

"No, it's nothing, just a little indigestion. I'm going now. We'll talk later, as I said. Please?"

He watched her go with concerned, puzzled eyes. Once outside in the corridor, she hurried as fast and as far as the brief adrenalin rush would take her. The temporary quarters were far enough away that her steps began to drag before she reached that section.

He had managed to rearrange his symptoms. Now he could talk about things he hadn't been able to mention without flying into a rage. Apparently, he remembered the mission well enough--just not her, and not that the mission had been abandoned.

She pulled off her boots and fell on the bed in her temporary quarters, bereft of energy to do anything more, and tried to meditate. Too tired. She drifted off to sleep, wondering what was in that tea Guinan had given her.

############

deLio thought, as he trod the route from the bridge to his quarters, that when the ship was at starbase he might put in for a relocation. His rooms were on deck eight, as were the captain's and the second officer's, but at the rear of the saucer section. Because of the shape of the saucer, the slant of the hull, and the configuration of the inner support structure, the largest quarters were in the front four sections. He would need larger quarters if his proposals had been amenable to the three he hoped to call family.

He especially hoped that the ghif he had chosen would accept. zeRia would please his parents; her family was revered highly among the dosts, and many had approached her and been turned away. He suspected his posting on a Starfleet vessel might be enough to interest her where others had failed to catch her eye. The other two, seKahl and deVin, would be more than happy to group with him if the ghif would agree. deVin was a distant cousin, from within his own dost; seKahl he had located by networking with another L'norim Starfleet officer. Ordinarily, he would never have come into contact with a member of se'dost without first approaching the elders.

Walking through section three, he glanced at the doors as he passed, noting the names or lack of them--some of these suites were left empty for guest quarters. He met Lieutenant Greenman coming along the gentle curve of the corridor, noted her pensive expression, and recalled her cabin assignment.

"Lieutenant?"

"Hello, sir." She turned and walked with him. Her gait was loose, her shoulders sloped--nuances of human body language he had learned through trial and error. She was off duty and deep in thought, treading that slender area between fellow officer and friend. Humans typically associated harmonious co-existence with friendship. While he thought of this as short-sighted and perhaps naive while dealing with other races, he had come to understand and even appreciate it.

"I'm worried," she said at last.

"About the captain," he filled in. "I understand."

"I'm worried about the commander, too. Neither of them are doing well. Commander, what will happen if he doesn't recover? Will Commander Troi be promoted and given the *Enterprise*?"

"I think you are speculating about things we couldn't hope to predict."

Greenman exhaled noisily and walked a number of paces in silence. She turned to speak, mouth open, and stopped, head turning further -- she stared over her shoulder, shocked. deLio stopped as well.

Captain Picard hurried along the corridor toward them, rubbing his chest absently, head down and brow furrowed. He stopped when he reached them. Contemplating them with a frown, he shook his head and went around them. He lacked the uniform jacket and pips--not unusual for human officers, but very unusual for the captain. deLio couldn't remember seeing him half-dressed that way before.

"Where's he going?" Greenman muttered. deLio thought she must be doing as many other humans did, thinking out loud.

"I had asked myself the same about you, Lieutenant. Isn't your own cabin on deck seven?"

Greenman blushed. "Uh, yes, sir, but I was just taking a walk."

"I suggest you walk elsewhere."

"Yes, sir." Her gaze fell.

As she turned to go to the nearest lift, he said, softly, "I am concerned as well, remember. But it is out of our hands. Remember what the commander told you."

A nod, and she continued on her way. deLio did the same. He didn't see the captain in the corridor between the brief meeting in the corridor and his quarters.

No matter. The captain often took walks when thinking. Perhaps he was on his way to sickbay, to see about whatever was bothering him -- the way he'd pressed fingertips to chest suggested pain, as did his expression, and if the pain had come upon him suddenly, it would explain the state of undress.

############

The pain that had driven him from his quarters lessened, then increased gradually. Picard did an about-face and went back, then again -- the oddity of this didn't register until he realized the pain dwindled at roughly the same spot both times, outside a cabin. Curious, he noted no assignment placard next to the door and went in.

The rooms were dark. The faint smell of standard issue carpet cleaner still hung in the air--unoccupied. He revised to 'recently occupied' when he entered the bedroom and saw, in the faint light through the viewports, someone on the bed. Deanna. Her face pale, her hair a dark cloud. Faintly snoring. She lay on her back, an arm bent as if she'd been rubbing her head and fallen asleep in the act; she hadn't undressed and was on top of the covers.

Only as he dropped to one knee next to the bed did he realize the pain was now completely absent. His hand went to the spot for the moment it took him to link it to Deanna's presence, and as he contemplated possible reasons for it, she shifted in her sleep. A tiny moan escaped her lips. Her eyelashes twitched.

The ache in his chest had begun when he awoke in sickbay, gone away when she arrived--though at the time he'd attributed it to whatever had knocked him out and assumed the pain had been temporary--and then begun anew as he left with the counselor. In the counselor's office, he'd actually lost his breath trying to speak and cope with it at the same time. Davidson had mistaken this for emotional upheaval and connected it to the topic of discussion, what Picard could and could not remember of a family he didn't believe he had, and Picard knew his insistence upon seeing his wife again had alarmed the counselor more because of this false perception. Accompanying him to her location, the quarters he evidently shared with Deanna and a child, Davidson had only left him alone when Deanna instructed him to--an annoyance in itself.

And as he talked to her, the pain was gone, and he assumed once more that it was a transient after-effect of whatever had made him lose consciousness. Sickbay occurred to him when she left and the pain came back. The thought of going back to that doctor with the hard green eyes didn't appeal, but the thought of dying because he'd ignored the symptoms didn't, either. He'd passed the first lift; two officers looking questions at him drove him to retreat, knowing there was another lift two sections away. Then he'd passed Greenman and deLio--they, too, had dubious expressions and eyes full of questions, so he'd pushed onward. Which had brought him here.

He studied her face in the starlight, touched the tumbling curls on the pillow, and thought of the things Davidson had read from her file--commander, once the ship's counselor, now the first officer. Betazoid. Mid-40's. His wife, mother of his son, pregnant with a daughter.

Still, for all that, she was a mystery. He had been thinking of another mystery, striding through the corridors to their quarters with the counselor hurrying to keep up. The situation reminded him of waking in a strange place to Eline, who tried to reason with him as he denied and ran away and searched for months in the vain hope of finding a life he'd lost. Of returning each time to Eline's home, until he ceased to think of it that way and considered it their home, a landmark that had passed unnoticed in his thoughts, recognized after the fact. Of sitting with her at her death, grieving, thinking of the months wasted in denial and anger, months he could have spent with her.

Deanna was a different mystery. If this had been a game of Q's, the entity would have appeared by now to gloat; if it were a dream like Kataan, his memories would not mesh so neatly. He drew a blank if he thought about Deanna, but when he considered the others, deLio, Carlisle, Davidson, Greenman, she appeared there with them, smiling, talking, sitting in a briefing room and discussing missions--he could remember Carlisle in the briefing while the ship was en route to Khevlin, asking about the Khevil, and Deanna giving the scant information they had been provided for the mission. He remembered reading mission briefs in his ready room and calling her in to discuss them. She played sounding board and devil's advocate, debated with him over which of them should go down, or whether both of them should.

He could also remember further back, though it came to him slowly and he had to keep drawing on memories of others first. Still, he seemed to recall her only as an officer, nothing about the wife, or about the boy. Even after seeing the pictures in his quarters.

She sighed in her sleep, lips pressed together in a gentle frown. That this woman had become his wife shocked him, rearranged his paradigm -- he had seen the proof in the computer records, he could see the ring on her finger that matched his own, he had seen their quarters and the nursery. It was possible and it had happened. He could deny it, test it, defy this reality on the assumption that something was wrong, or he could accept Davidson's assertion that he still suffered partial amnesia from the trauma he suffered some weeks ago. How he had survived and been healed remained vague and nebulous; he remembered some but not all of his experiences after Khevlin. He remembered waking in a foreign vessel, the thunk and hiss of air when the hull was pierced, the pungent musky-damp animal smell of the Asili.

Suddenly, wingbeats. A rush of air. The tickle of feathers, the cry of a bird. Floating. He blinked, shuddered, and blinked again.

Deanna had opened her eyes. She stared at him, her irises and pupils indistinguishable, pools of dark in the starlight. "How did you -- why are you here?" she whispered.

"I didn't come looking for you." He rose slowly to his feet, his knee aching from bearing his weight so long. "I was on my way to sickbay. Pain, here," he rubbed the center of his chest, "like it hurt in the bone. I thought it was whatever put me out, but it kept coming back. . . . It happens when you leave. I didn't recognize that until it led me in here."

She sat up, hair falling forward around her face, and cleared her throat. "It led you here."

"Because when I passed the door it lessened, and when I came in here, it went away."

"What were you thinking just now, before I woke?"

"I was trying to remember. Thinking about before, when you wanted me to stay on the ship and not go down to Khevlin. Trying to remember more than you being an officer."

"You remember me?"

She turned to sit on the edge of the bed. Picard sat with her, not touching her, glancing at her watching him. "I remember when I think of the others. If I remember the briefings, I can see you with them and recall what you said. I think of the mission and I can recall conversations we've had about it."

"Do you remember talking to Natalia last night?"

"No. The last thing I remember is the reception." He stared at her hand curled upon her knee, at her wedding ring, instead of facing her eyes again. "And I've been trying to recall having a family. . . . Mon Dieu, why can't I remember that? Why is it so hard?"

She didn't respond. Left speechless and at odds with himself, trying to decide whether to leave her to her slumber or attempt conversation about the situation, he shook his head at himself. Hopeless.

A touch startled him--she'd put her hand over his, and met his eyes without flinching when he turned. "You're tired," she murmured, betraying her own weariness in her raspy voice. "Come on."

He expected her to rise, but she pulled at his arm and leaned. Following her guidance resulted in the two of them lying on the bed, as she sidled out of his way and pulled him down next to her. They lay on their backs with sleeves brushing, and he noticed she, too, had her hands on her abdomen. But in her case there was a notable bulge beneath them.

"I'll remember," he whispered. "Even if I don't, I can start over. I feel. . . . I don't understand how I can feel this way without remembering. Why is this happening to me? Why can I love you and not remember?"

"It wasn't gone." The words were barely audible, but he heard them, and the shuddering indrawn breath that followed. "We have a bond. It's what you're feeling now. It was only suppressed, blocked away, and whatever happened must have freed it. I didn't sense it before, I was so exhausted. It must be why you felt pain. Normally, that only happens when we're far apart. I hope that hasn't been changed permanently."

He stared up at the viewports without seeing, trying to understand or remember or find some comfort in this explanation. Anxious questions cluttered his thoughts. At his side, Deanna moved twice, seeking a comfortable position, probably. Then she reached out, edged close, came to rest with a cheek on his shoulder and an arm over him, and after a moment to adjust to this, he put his arm around her.

It surprised him that the weight of her head and the brush of curls against his head felt so natural. She breathed along his neck, her belly pushing against him, and this simple act of draping herself over him told him more than anything she could have said--she loved him, trusted him, needed him, and whatever it was in him that responded to her with so much feeling responded to it in kind.

"Do you remember when I was your counselor?" she whispered.

It was as if the mention of it brought it into being. Memories of her voice, the brush of her hand along his arm while he grappled with the aftermath of being tortured, the way her eyes mirrored his feelings--all of this came to him much more clearly, and directly, than anything more recent.

"Amazing," he murmured. "How easily that came back to me. Davidson told me about it but I couldn't remember until now. How long have we been together?"

"You'll probably continue to remember more and more. It seems that like most cases of amnesia, it's clearing up on its own, especially with reminders." She spoke slowly, almost slurring. "Almost six years. We've been quite happy together, in spite of some difficulties."

"You sound very tired. It's so early yet--is something the matter? The baby? Sickbay?"

Her hand found his face. "I was just there, remember? I'm exhausted. All I need is rest."

He needed it, too. Letting his mind drift back to memories of the counselor, he worked his way forward chronologically, hoping to remember more before he slept.

###############

Waking up became a long ordeal. Deanna mistook it for another dream--the dreams had been endless, some of them waking her up to find herself there with Jean-Luc. He hadn't shifted much, still lay on his back in the same position each time she woke, but she wondered if he dreamed as she did. And then there were a few times she woke, then woke again to realize she'd dreamed of waking. Actually counting the awakenings and distinguishing them from the dreams became impossible.

She realized she was awake for good when Jean-Luc came to sit on the bed and she felt the movement, and then his hand on her waist. "Good morning," he said, sounding so incredibly normal, so himself, that her heart leaped into her throat and hope blossomed--was all of it, the Khevlin and the Asili and the K'korll, just a dream? Because he leaned in and brushed his lips along her throat, just beneath her ear, and she could feel the bond between them vibrating with reciprocated emotions.

"What time is it?" she mumbled, smiling.

"Time for you to get up, if you're supposed to be on the bridge."

She rose, almost before he could move out of the way, and took stock. Not their quarters. It wasn't a dream. "Yes, I suppose I should. Did you have pleasant dreams?"

His lips twitched, almost smiling, the wry amusement mostly felt but not expressed. "I don't believe I dreamed at all. I can't remember them, anyway. How do you feel?"

"Stiff shoulder." She rolled her right shoulder and gave her arm a brief massage, but he pulled her left hand away and dug his thumbs into her back muscles, along shoulder blades and up, guiding her shoulders straight while he worked. "Jean," she exclaimed, then gave in.

"Breakfast?"

She let her head fall forward while he worked at the top of her spine. "It's too early. I'm not hungry. I should get to the shower -- I'll have to replicate another uniform."

"I wish I understood why I'm off duty."

Deanna pulled free of his hands, wishing she didn't have to. "Didn't the counselor explain it to you?"

"Yes, but I don't know how I came to this. He didn't go into detail about the actual injuries I supposedly suffered."

"He didn't?" The report Mengis had given her and the description in deLio's report came together to paint a gruesome picture she had done her best not to think about. She rounded the end of the bed and glanced at him. "You really want to know what happened to you?"

"I gather the Asili attacked Khevlin and I was injured."

"You were taking a tour of some sort of cultural center. Lieutenant-Commander deLio found you buried in the rubble. A wall had fallen, but in such a way that your head and chest ended up in a space between beams, which held up the rubble and kept you from being smothered or crushed. Another beam fell across your legs and broke both. Most of your ribs had been fractured, three had snapped." She paused, debating whether to be comprehensive or summarize. "I could list all the fractures but it would take too long. You weren't recognizable through the blood and lacerations and all the dirt, deLio said. The Khevlin did the best they could but have no regenerative technology, and had never seen a human before--they could clean and stitch wounds, they could feed you, but antibiotics and other medications were a puzzle they had no time to solve. They gave you to the K'korll, you were taken to their world, and their healers took over. deLio describes hours of K'korll standing over you in silence. They rarely touched you, McGinnis and deLio are at a loss for how they could heal you, and both describe the way you rambled and raved whenever you woke. When you returned, you couldn't remember me, or other crew changes, and your behavior was--"

His behavior would appal him, if she told him everything. She pressed her lips together, unable to go on. In her face, there must have been something of the dread of her memory and the pain this situation caused her; he came to her, embraced her, drawing the contrast between today and yesterday in broader strokes yet.

She allowed herself the moment. His feelings, the bond, all of her conflicting emotions, were more than she could control. A sob from her, quickly contained, resulted in the tightening of his arms and murmured endearments in French. He wasn't making this easy.

"Let go," she whispered. At once, his arms opened. Definitely, he was not making this easy.

"What's wrong?"

"Everything. You weren't yourself, Jean-Luc. We would have declared you unfit when you returned on a purely medical basis, if not for the theory that you might be actively monitored and the fact that we were surrounded by too many ships in Alliance space. I believe you were brainwashed, and under alien control, until yesterday afternoon."

His progression from surprise to anxiety took some long, silent moments of internal struggle, which actually reassured her; previously the mood swings had been nearly instantaneous. "You have evidence of these suppositions? I shouldn't have to tell you how important any negotiation with any Alliance species would be to the Federation."

"The doctor and counselor agree that you should be on medical leave. Please let your officers do their jobs."

"I have a rapport with the Asili," he exclaimed. "With Gretha in particular. I may not be quite so sound, but this is too important--I'm fit enough to deal with them. I must do this, Deanna, it's a possible beginning for successful negotiations with other Alliance species, if we can convince the Asili to ally themselves with us."

Ignorance could truly be bliss. She did her best not to think of the meeting with Ze, the terrible demise of Gretha, the sensation of sharp teeth in his flesh before he even finished dying too fresh in her memory. Bile rose in her throat once again.

"Your health is my concern, Captain. The mission is also now my concern. It's for the best, sir, please believe me on this. Excuse me, I must get ready--we'll discuss this later."

She left him there and went to shower. When she returned to the bedroom he had gone. Her stomach growled finally, so she stayed long enough to eat before heading for the bridge.

###############

Remembered bits of reality came to him one and two at a time as he surveyed his quarters. While putting on a clean uniform, Picard reacquainted himself with his family through a few images on the wall and propped on a shelf. He looked at a small device with a worn surface and recalled an archeological dig, finding proto-Romulan artifacts, coming face to face with Vash, Deanna arriving to spend the duration of the trip with him. He looked at items on the dressing table and remembered Deanna using them. He found, on a quick search through closet and drawers, clothing that reminded him of Deanna wearing them and occasions associated with them.

And yet, the time scale eluded him. Had the dig been last year? Had the reception at which she'd worn the blue dress been last month? Or had it all happened five years ago, or six? The pictures helped solidify the memories in a way he hadn't been able to do with Kataan, but nothing helped him understand chronology or relevance. Kataan or Deanna dancing with him, it had the same distance, the same sense of having happened in a different world, far away in space and time.

Deanna's words that morning worried him. She insisted, as had the counselor, that he had been relieved of duty for good cause. He sighed, mulling over his situation.

"She's wrong," came the barest thread of a whisper. In the farthest corner of the living room, next to the tall potted broad-leafed plant, a familiar shape stepped out of shadow. Glossy inkwell eyes met his unblinkingly. Again, the whisper. "This is your ship. You are in command. She is wrong. You were healed. You must resume the mission."

He flinched, shaking himself, feeling as though he had awakened to find himself standing up and dressed for duty. The memory of Deanna rising early, getting ready, leaving their quarters and taking Yves with her filled in the blank --he had just seen her off. He should be on the bridge.

His feet moved without conscious thought directing them. When the lift opened on deck six, Yves hurried in, and he swept the boy into his arms with a smile. Of course, he already missed his papa and got away from maman to come find him.

###############

Deanna stopped the lift on deck six on her way to the bridge and strolled down the corridor to Guinan's door, which opened almost at once; she'd timed it closely. Yves rushed her and she scooped him up for a hug.

"We were just leaving for school," Guinan said, stepping up to stroke the back of Yves' head.

"I can take him. Thanks, Guinan."

"How is he?" Guinan murmured. She tucked a braid behind her ear and crossed her arms.

"I think he's doing better, though he's still forgetful."

"Who are you talking about, Mama?"

"Just someone we know. Did you have fun staying with Guinan?" She smiled farewell at Guinan and carried her son as far as the lift before giving up and setting him on his feet.

"She read stories. We jumped onna bed. I carefoe, Mama, I din't get hurt."

"I can see that. What do you think you'll do in school today?"

"Cowor, and pway wetters, and do puppets." His favorite things to do in day care. He bounced into the lift the instant the doors opened, giving her no time to keep him from careening into anyone inside. "Papa!"

She hurried in to find that Jean-Luc had already swept the boy up into his arms. The obvious affection in his face shocked her, as did his comfort with holding Yves. He'd regained more of his memory since last night.

"On your way to school the long way?"

"Yes," Deanna replied, moving into the lift and wondering at that comment. It wasn't worth addressing in front of their son. "Why don't you tell Papa what you did last night with Guinan?"

"We had pink begtables, and we jump onna bed, and she tohd me stories about her son. He fwew a ship and had a wooniform."

Jean-Luc raised an eyebrow, glancing at Deanna, who had quietly punched their destination in manually. She thought he hesitated while considering a reply, but sensed confusion. Perhaps he hadn't understood--Yves did tend to substitute consonants, especially when pronouncing 'r' or 'l'. She heard what Yves intended to say, but evidently Jean-Luc's memory was still patchy.

"Did you like the stories?" she asked, hoping to deflect the confusion.

Yves twisted in Papa's arms to smile at her. "I wike Papa's stowies bettoe. Can we go to the barbertatum?"

"We'll go to the arboretum after school." The lift doors opened. With a hand on Yves' back, she walked with Jean-Luc to the nursery, where all the children under five were taken while their parents were on duty. Cecily tried not to stare, but Deanna caught the dubious glance at Jean-Luc and sensed the questions that went unasked.

Jean-Luc hesitated as Cecily led Yves, already entranced by the prospect of finger-painting as two other children were doing, into the nursery. Deanna turned away. He caught up with her halfway to the lift, sidestepping with her around a mother and child coming down the corridor.

"You're on leave," she said. They entered the lift and she gave it deck eight. "You shouldn't be in uniform."

"I don't believe I should be on leave."

She eyed him, noting the dark patches under his eyes and the loose sleeves--he'd put on one of the uniforms from the closet rather than replicating a new size. Not that he'd lost a size, really, just some of the weight that had previously filled it out.

"You seem to have recovered considerably in the last day, that's true, but you're not completely recovered. And regulations dictate that if there's been significant mental incapacity--"

"I'm not incapacitated, Commander. I haven't been. I was healed, and I'm fine. While I respect the opinions of my CMO and counselor, there's no reason for me to lounge around when we are in the middle of a sensitive mission --"

"Captain!" Deanna slapped the controls, noting the car halted just short of the bridge and keeping her voice down because of it. "Captain, there is no mission. If you remembered anything of yesterday, if you remembered anything of my logs for the duration of your absence from the ship, you would understand exactly why there is no mission left to concern yourself with, why we are concerned about your mental state, and why you were removed from duty. The very fact that you do not recall these things is itself a reason to remove you."

"No mission? What do you mean? I realize the visit to Khevlin was originally our mission, but the Asili would be an excellent ally, strategically speaking."

"There are no Asili following us. We left Alliance space and left them behind."

"What?" Anger clouded his eyes, brought creases to his forehead. "I gave no such order!"

"Yesterday, while you were in sickbay unconscious after you passed out in your ready room immediately following a confrontation in which we removed you from duty, we confronted a new vessel, manned by unknown telepaths whom I suspect were manipulating you all along. And after we leave it far behind, along with the Asili fleet and Alliance space, you awaken with a different set of symptoms and a new series of gaps in your memory, which would indicate that I was correct--of course you would forget anything that might prove you were manipulated. Of course you wouldn't remember our questions regarding your stay among the Asili. The memories you do have of that period are highly suspect, and may be artificial constructs intended to mislead Starfleet. You do not belong on duty, Captain, and believe me, it pains me to say that. I wish it weren't true."

He froze, then blinked, his set expression his way of hiding the shock and betrayal he felt.

"I see," he said at last. "Why was I not told this before?"

She sighed heavily and bolstered herself against his emotions, wishing she had gone to sickbay first for the inhibitor. "You were told. There are several things you've been told repeatedly, only to have you forget again --another symptom, another reason you shouldn't be on duty. How can we keep you informed if you forget such details, and we don't know you've forgotten until something you say alerts us?"

He continued to stare into her eyes. He didn't quite believe her. It hurt, and not just on a personal level. Her captain had always trusted her before. Rationally, she could tell herself he had a psychological need to remain confident in his perceptions, that this could be remedied with time and as he remembered more. It wasn't helping her in the present--Captain Picard mistrusted her, almost glared at her for daring to question his fitness. It occurred to her that he may have been set up to show such mistrust of other officers in the event that the aliens lost contact with him. Not reassuring--how many other subroutines lurked in waiting in his mind? How many other suggestions had been planted in his subconscious?

"If you have questions, you should speak to the counselor," she exclaimed. "Computer, resume."

The door opened within seconds. She stared him down while standing on the threshold. Finally, he nodded and stepped back, his shoulders losing some of their tension. Surrender. She let the door shut and moved down the bridge, ignoring stares. "Mr. Carlisle?"

"We're arriving at starbase in ten minutes. Repair crews are standing by. So is Admiral Farok. He wants to see you when we dock." Ward wasn't smiling, not so much as his usual hail-well-met that appeared even in tense situations. "How is the captain?"

"Fine. Any news of the Asili?"

"None that we've heard."

"Call the rest of the senior staff. Time for a final meeting before the debriefings."

###############

The doors parted and deLio stepped inside, and not for the first time found himself confronted with an uncomfortable situation in a lift. The captain stopped the car the instant the doors closed.

"Do you think I'm unfit for command?" he snapped.

deLio considered the captain for a silent moment. "Yes, sir. But I also believe that to be a temporary situation."

"I don't believe this," the captain muttered. "Deck eight." It forced the lift to reverse course and reopen the doors. The captain strode out stiffly.

When deLio reached the bridge, the absence of senior officers told the tale--Mendez pointing to starboard at the observation room door and the view of a starbase on the main screen confirmed it. deLio crossed the bridge to join the others.

Commander Troi, standing at the head of the table, waited for him to be seated next to the counselor. "We were discussing the doctor's assessment of the changes in the captain, and the latest update--based on the warnings we broadcasted yesterday, Penaias and the other stations out there requested support."

"I just saw the captain. He wanted to know if I considered him unfit. I told him I thought it was a temporary situation."

Troi exchanged a look with the counselor. "What did he say?"

"He expressed his disbelief and disdain for my opinion and left the lift on deck eight."

"You should not keep the admiral waiting, Commander," Carlisle pointed out.

"No, I shouldn't." The commander leaned forward, hands pressed flat on the table. "But I wanted the latest update from the doctor. Do you have anything else to add, Doctor?"

"I will forward a more detailed report to you later. It will confirm our suppositions." Mengis picked up the steaming beverage in front of him. "I suspect that we will be able to do little. It would be beneficial if we had other human victims, or patients, of the K'korll with which to compare his condition. It might also be beneficial to have a K'korll to study."

"I doubt that will be possible," the commander said.

Mengis bowed his head and gestured with a hand. "I realize. But it would have been easier to help him. As it is, we can only hope he proves to retain his habit of rapid recuperation."

"Do you think he'll recuperate?" LaForge asked. "These symptoms you mentioned don't sound good."

"It's too soon to tell, I'm afraid." Mengis' slow, deliberate response worried deLio.

"The captain has suffered another relapse?" deLio asked, seeking reassurance in their faces. The doctor sipped his coffee and looked grim. Deanna glanced at Mengis, then turned to deLio, weariness tracing extra lines in her face.

"More unpredictable and unusual symptoms," she said. "Though there are some slight improvements, it's not enough to dispel my suspicion. There's still the chance that he's a threat. There's also the possibility that these symptoms are not going to abate. They seem almost cyclical."

"You believe the damage is permanent," Carlisle intoned. "But it's still only been a few days, and there's still hope -- "

"Normal traumatic amnesia usually clears up rapidly. The longer his condition continues as it has been, the less confidence I have in the theory that it's something that will go away." Troi paced around the table slowly, stopping before the viewports. "I have to accept the possibility that he may not fully recover."

"But the doctor said finding the K'korll might help. And maybe the K'korll could help him, too," Greenman exclaimed. "They helped him so much already."

"We're not risking the ship to look for the K'korll. We have no idea where to start looking, and I doubt Starfleet would let us have a fleet to adequately defend ourselves." Deanna turned her back on the viewport, through which the starbase loomed large. She gave the lieutenant a stern look that cut off whatever Greenman was about to say. Greenman dropped her gaze and bit her lower lip.

"Mr. LaForge?" Deanna asked, moving on with determination.

"I'm still combing the sensor logs for the information you're looking for," LaForge said, leaning and placing an elbow on the table as he turned toward her. "We isolated a particular substance from the hull of the unidentified ship that's not likely to be found adrift in space, nor is it present in the hulls of the Asili vessels, and that's what we're looking for. There are three hits so far on long-range scans, two of them taking place within an hour of the captain's return to the *Enterprise*. I'm betting they knew just how far away they had to stay so we wouldn't detect them, and that they don't run with that cloak operating for extended periods of time."

"Stay on it. Mr. Carlisle, get started on a leave schedule--hold off on scheduling senior officers and Lieutenant McGinnis until we know more. And get me a report on all vessels lost in the vicinity of Alliance space. I'm going to talk to the admiral. deLio, you're coming with me."

deLio followed her to a lift and down corridors, dissecting the exchange in the briefing. "Why did the doctor assume you needed confirmation of the captain's condition?"

"We need confirmation of everything." She glanced sidelong at him as they entered the transporter room. "This may take a while."

"I understand."

The admiral had settled into offices on deck four of the starbase, and as they approached deLio noted the presence of a security officer standing at attention at the door. The commander halted in front of the door, which didn't open.

"I'm Commander Troi. The admiral is expecting me."

"The admiral is with Captain Picard," the man said. "He instructed me to inform you that you should wait. There is a lounge four doors down, on the right, if you wish to sit down."

The commander nodded and strolled down the corridor. deLio went with her, and watched in amazement as she casually addressed a replicator for a glass of water and something to eat. "Sir?"

"The captain doesn't accept our assessment of his condition." She took a plate to the table and sat down. "Stubborn. And possibly part of whatever's been done to him."

deLio felt his cheek pouches inflating and exhaled, calming himself. "It does seem to indicate a much more deliberate and carefully-planned series of symptoms than we thought. The doctor seemed to think--"

"We shouldn't discuss this now." She cut a piece of food--cake? pie? he never ate either, and differentiating was unimportant -- and raised the fork to her mouth.

deLio picked up a padd someone had left on the table. It appeared to hold a variety of news vids and text articles. He manipulated the padd to bring up one of the articles that mentioned the Olympics to see if his cousin had made it to the finals in sharpshooting and found a different story than expected.

"There is an article here about the Asili delegation on Deneva," he said. Troi put down her fork and stared at him. Her expression seemed to ask for further explanation, so he read out loud. "'Starfleet has released information on the identity of the newcomers sighted on the grounds--the largest of the group is an Asili, a species which has been previously identified as a part of the Randra Alliance. Previously, talks with the Alliance have been inconclusive.'"

"Let me see that," Troi exclaimed. She took the padd and read avidly, then frowned and manipulated the controls. Another moment's perusal and she threw the padd down. Hands resting on either side of her plate, she contemplated, eyes distant.

"Sir?"

"I'm sorry." She shook her head, her eyes meeting his. "One of the oldest human colonies in the Federation. How the hell did an Asili vessel get all the way to Deneva?"

deLio nodded. "Either they are on a different type of ship than we have previously seen Asili using, or they were allowed to get there by Starfleet.

"Remember what Ze said, when I spoke with her? She lied to me about being in agreement with whoever sent that delegation. They have different motives for being there, and people have disappeared."

deLio picked up the padd again. She'd left an article on the screen; he read a short account of a missing Federation ambassador and several others, apparently all taken from the same hotel. The Denevan authorities had no leads and could guess at no apparent motive for the kidnaping.

"The journalists make no connection between the presence of the Asili and the missing persons." deLio set aside the padd. "That would seem atypical behavior for journalists. One expects them to manufacture theories rather than say nothing more than what happened."

"Wouldn't one?" Deanna snatched up her fork and stabbed her food. "Well, we know first-hand how concerned Starfleet is about the Alliance. I have the feeling we will continue to know as little as possible for some time to come."

############

Farok was a Vulcan, and that was helpful. Picard knew how to talk to a Vulcan. So far, the admiral had listened attentively and asked very few questions.

"You are saying your first officer made a mistake in relieving you of duty, and that the warnings she broadcast are not entirely factual," Farok intoned, gazing with lidded dark eyes over steepled fingers.

"I understand her concerns. Honestly, if I were in her situation, I might have thought of doing the same." Picard stopped his hand in the act of moving toward his chest; the ache wasn't as bad as it had been last night. It hadn't manifested itself until he'd left the ship, in fact. "But given the nature of the mission and the rapport I'd established with the Asili, and the lack of evidence linking the Asili to the K'korll--the Asili fear the K'korll, in fact--I don't see why she took such drastic measures. The benefit to the Federation outweighed the risk."

"The risk being that you might compromise the safety of your crew? Or did she also have concerns about Starfleet security? If there was a question of confidential information you possessed becoming Alliance knowledge, she may have just cause." Farok sat forward, dropped his hands into his lap, and tilted his head. "Do you remember what happened when you were among the K'korll?"

The office was bare, walls painted gray a shade darker than that of the uniforms, the desk glossy black, and over Farok's shoulder Picard could see his reflection faintly in the viewport against the backdrop of space. The black of his uniform vanished, leaving the pale shoulders and red undershirt, and his face. And standing behind him over his shoulder, the tar-black skin of the silent companion who appeared and disappeared into shadow at intervals. The round black eyes were plain in the reflection, light scintillating in them.

"Captain?"

"I remember being asked," he said, suddenly hoarse. "They wanted information. I deflected them."

Farok's long face didn't twitch, nor did surprise show in his eyes. "You are human. From your own description of events, the K'korll were capable of incredible psychokinetic feats, and their telepathy must be as advanced -- how could you have defended yourself?"

Picard tore his eyes from the reflections and met Farok's even gaze. He felt the beginnings of the twisting of his lip and suppressed that reaction. "I'm sure you are aware of my assimilation prior to the battle of Wolf 359. I could not defend myself against the K'korll, but I could immerse myself in the most painful memories I could recall. In my experience, most telepaths in advanced states of invasion into the minds of others are susceptible to sharing such things as if they had experienced it themselves."

"So you projected the sensations of being assimilated. And you feel that this dissuaded them adequately? You were among them for eight days, which is quite a long time to project such pain."

"During the majority of my time with the K'korll, I was unconscious or in a delusional state. It is my understanding that most telepaths cannot probe an unconscious mind for information stored in it, that there must be some state of waking. That a telepath needs, to put it roughly, a guide to the brain of another, and that the easiest way to do that is to prompt some conscious part of the mind to create one in the victim's imagination."

Farok nodded. "I see you are not inexperienced in these matters."

"No. I must confess an advantage that most humans do not have. I have participated in mind melds before, and the experiences have given me a better grasp of the mechanics of telepathy."

The admiral studied the monitor at his left for a moment. "Your first officer is Betazoid."

"Half. She's an empath."

"And your wife," Farok added, raising an eyebrow and turning off the screen.

"That does not interfere with our duty."

"I did not say that it did. I am curious, however, about her impression of your interpretation of how well you defended yourself against telepathic invasion."

"That should be obvious. She had me relieved of duty."

"I have seen no indication of that in the logs." The eyebrow dropped, and Farok raised his head slightly. "The counselor and the doctor were the ones who logged that recommendation, shortly after your return. The counselor cites uncharacteristic behavior and partial amnesia, as well as asymptomatic aphasia. The doctor cites changes in brain activity and troublesome changes in your physiology. Both mention that if not for the first officer's concerns for security, you would have been removed from duty immediately. And you still assert that you should not have been relieved?"

"The symptoms that concerned them are gone. It's only been a day, and I've improved markedly--there was no reason to call off the mission. That's my main concern. Whatever their opinion of my fitness or lack thereof, it should not have curtailed the diplomatic endeavor I began with the Asili."

"You can say this in spite of the Asili attack on your original mission to the Khevlin?"

"The Asili followed orders out of self-preservation."

Farok folded his hands on the desk before him. "Whose orders?"

"The Randra Alliance isn't like the Federation. The intelligence we had is wrong--it's not what we would think of as an Alliance. It's a region of space loosely governed by a group of races whose technological advantage puts them ahead of the less-fortunate species within their sphere of influence. The Asili were given the vessels they have as part of their agreement to serve the givers. They call them the Sisnok. Whether that is simply their name for them, or the Sisnok's own label, I couldn't tell you."

"So the Alliance is maintained by force, not by treaty. And the Asili are willing to abandon the Alliance for the Federation?"

"They do not have replicator technology. The Sisnok give them supplies, but not enough. They want freedom from what amounts to slavery --if the Federation gives them that, it wins us a new ally and it deprives the Alliance of that many vessels with which to launch an offensive. If we could use the Asili as an example we may be able to turn more species in Alliance space to ally with us and break the tyranny apart."

Farok paused, thinking, his hands folded on the desk. "It's only been a day, you said. To what do you refer?"

"Since the last time I experienced a lapse of consciousness." The words leapt from him without hesitation. Odd. He glanced at the viewport; the alien still stood behind him, waving long fingers in the air and nodding. It had been a day since the reception, he had meant, but Farok's question needed an answer other than that--the others had said three days, which meant four now. "Slightly less than a day, actually. That was yesterday afternoon. I've regained a lot of the memories I'd lost. I'm remembering more all the time."

Farok nodded. "I shall consider this matter further. Thank you, Captain, for sharing your concerns. You are dismissed."

Picard rose, managed a polite smile, and left the office. The security officer stared straight ahead and didn't react to his passing. At the end of the corridor he waited for the lift; he glanced back at the sound of footsteps and saw Troi and deLio entering the admiral's office.

The lift took him to the free commerce level. Public comm units were plentiful on this level. Locking himself in the first empty booth, he waited for the usual retinal scan and brought the manual interface online, punching in a non-standard frequency. The screen remained off. There would be no two-way contact, and this message would be received after considerable delay.

"Making good progress. Outlook still positive."

When the message was sent, he powered down the station and closed his eyes. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he rested, waiting out the pressure behind his eyes --

\-- opened his eyes, and waited for the retinal scan. Strange. Why was the unit not responding? He tapped the clearly-marked reset on the touchpad and the comm came to life. "Initiate connection, Earth, specifically France."

"Working."

Marie would be happy to hear from him. Perhaps he should have waited until he was back aboard and Deanna and Yves were with him, but Deanna was busy in debriefing--they could call again later, before the ship left the starbase. In fact, it would happen anyway, as they were making a tradition of calling friends and relatives directly on birthdays, and Yves' was coming up soon.

############

"You look tired, Commander," the counselor said, practically cooing at Deanna. Jesala Cant was annoyingly young and thin, not to mention Betazoid. Deanna had not heard the name Cant before, though Jesala was common enough, especially in the northern provinces.

"I am tired. Being pregnant can do that all by itself, you know." Deanna hoped her forbidding tone would dissuade further faux concern from Cant. She eyed Farok unwaveringly. "He isn't himself, Admiral. Not on duty."

Farok remained consistent--unemotional, calm, even. "He seemed to remember quite a lot. Much of what he said matches your report."

"A pattern of episodic amnesia has developed, wherein he forgets the same information, as well as temporarily losing hours, even days, of recent memories. I believe the counselor documented this?"

"Do you think the fact that one of your officers has once been a victim of. . . 'brainwashing,' that this predisposes you to judging the captain a victim of the same?"

"This is not the same. I did not sense an indication of Mr. LaForge's condition in the situation to which you refer. I did sense indications of extensive and harmful tampering in Captain Picard, and I believe that all the symptoms he displayed are a result of it. Furthermore, my experience with the alien vessel we could not identify leads me to believe that it had been shadowing us and that it contained the telepaths who were interfering--a belief supported by close examination of the sensor logs, and by the changes in the captain following our rapid departure. Dr. Selar has mind-melded with me twice in pursuit of answers and would testify to my findings, if you require an impartial observation of telepathic activity."

Farok considered in silence. Deanna ignored the counselor seated at her right, kept her back straight in spite of muscle aches, and ran through a relaxation meditation in her head to keep calm and prevent fidgeting.

"Does he know that you believe the Asili are cannibalistic? Or that you went to the Asili vessel yourself to talk to their leader?"

"No. As a psychologist, I am quite aware of the dangers of confronting someone in his condition with too much reality at a time. I felt that he should be given a chance to recover before we discussed the mission in any detail."

"Yet you told him about the extent of his injuries," Cant said.

"I summarized them for him, as the doctor had done before. Another incidence of his forgetfulness. He asked me about it."

"Did he also ask you about the Asili?"

"No. I did tell him what we had done, when we informed him he was officially on medical leave. He forgot. I told him again when he continued to insist that he should participate in negotiations in spite of his condition, and he came here, to you."

Farok studied her, his emotions as muted as any Vulcan's. "I believe an investigation is in order," the admiral announced at length. "Counselor Cant will conduct an independent examination of the captain's condition. I shall contact appropriate officers to examine the logs of your senior officers. Expect to be contacted for questioning and inform your officers to expect the same. Do you have any questions?"

*Can another counselor be appointed to this duty?* "No questions, sir."

"Dismissed."

Deanna kept her strides measured and even, and deLio fell in behind her in the corridor. Cant hovered along behind.

"Commander?"

"Yes," Deanna replied without looking back.

"I sense you dislike me. I fail to see how you could make such a judgement after a single--"

Deanna spun about and Cant almost ran into her. It left them face to face at close range, and Deanna met those dark-on-dark eyes for the first time. "I hope you don't make a habit of intruding into the thoughts of others, Counselor."

Jesala Cant's slack-mouthed expression was quite satisfying. "I wasn't," she gasped.

"See that you don't." Deanna turned away. deLio's face remained impassive, but Deanna detected amusement beneath it. She smiled grimly and resumed their departure. "Commander deLio will introduce you to the counselor, who will take you to see the captain. I suggest that you avoid snooping with him as well, he's not tolerant of such activity. I have an errand to run before I return to the ship."

She let them take the first turbolift, then made her way down a few levels at a time and got off on deck twenty-nine. Ignoring the persistent ache in her lower back, she hurried along through the main corridor, oblivious to all other foot traffic--the pull of the bond seemed fainter than it should be.

She hesitated outside a store that specialized in rare and unusual items. He should be close, but she couldn't see him anywhere. Then she sensed his approach and ducked around a large many-sided directory.

He came out of the rarities store and marched off, not looking back. Deanna loitered along, keeping him just in sight, until she saw he was heading for the transporter area, then tapped her badge and quietly called for deOrda to beam her aboard.

She made it out of transporter room one as the signal from the starbase sounded a request to beam aboard. Hurrying made her gasp for air, but she entered her quarters and was seated and recovered by the time Jean-Luc arrived.

He hesitated, stunned by her presence. "I thought you were with the admiral."

"I was. After hearing deLio's summary, and mine, and bringing in a counselor to help him sort out my descriptions of your symptoms and verify that I was indeed speaking of actual psychological troubles that could happen to a human, he decided that an investigation is in order. You can't say he's not a typically-thorough Vulcan." She set aside the padd, flicking the power button so he wouldn't see it contained yesterday's reports.

He crossed the room to his desk. "An investigation."

"There will be a counselor coming to see you. She'll perform an evaluation of your mental state."

Jean-Luc picked up a chess piece and made a pretense of studying it. He put it down and reached for a padd. "If there's going to be an investigation, perhaps we should not be discussing the situation."

"Because we may end up on opposite sides in a court-martial." Deanna went to stand with him in front of the desk. "Is that what you intended in going to the admiral? Is this revenge for my decision to abandon the Asili?"

He turned a calculating look on her that she hadn't seen him use before--a look reminiscent of Ze's cold assessment of her. She shivered. It vanished in an instant, however. "No. I don't want to hurt you. But I think you made a mistake, and I'm afraid it's cost the Federation dearly--it could have been the beginning of a solution to the problem of the Randra Alliance."

She blinked back sudden tears--hormones, she thought bitterly, and too much stress for too long with no respite. "Has it cost me my family as well?" she whispered.

Surprise, then remorse, then anxiety. He gathered her into his arms. "I don't want it to."

She leaned into the embrace, returned it, and pulled herself free, averting her face. "I think, if neither of us wishes to endanger the personal relationship, we might be better off staying in separate quarters until the investigation is over."

"I don't see the point. It isn't personal, Deanna."

"I think we should. Can't you have any faith in me at all? About anything?"

It hurt both of them. He took a step backward. "I do. It's the situation, it's difficult. I can't allow my feelings for you to affect--"

"It would be best," she repeated firmly. "I understand what you are saying, Jean-Luc. Please don't think I want you to leave --I simply know my limitations, and yours, and right now what I need most is solitude and rest and time to meditate so I can be objective and cope with this. You know how sensitive I can be when I'm pregnant."

"All right," he said at last. "That's fair enough. I'll go--unless you would rather I stayed here to take care of Yves?"

"I can manage that much. If this does go to a court-martial, I may not have much time--" She swallowed, unable to keep the tears at bay, and shook her head. "I'm sorry. I'm already imagining the worst. The counselor will be looking for you."

"Counselors," he grumbled.

"It's necessary."

"I'll just get a few things."

She tried not to think, closed her eyes tightly, only opening them when he returned with a few items in his hands--a book, a couple of padds, and one of the framed images from the bedroom wall. He hesitated, studying her from across the room, then left, though not without remorse and pain. A few heartbeats later, she relaxed and the tears came.

It was for the best, with the uncertainty of how many surprises still waited within his mind. It was safer for her and for Yves. If something went awry, if the telepaths had attempted healing and caused damage that would result in psychosis or schizophrenia, she might not learn of it until it was too late. Had the repeated bouts of unpredictable amnesia been a part of the plan, or a side effect? If the latter, his condition could worsen.

He had remembered more about her. He had accepted her excuse for a separation. Or, he didn't remember and he was compensating quickly, in which case she must be especially careful so as not to miss any clues that might help unravel the mystery of his condition.

With her own emotions in turmoil, she didn't sense anything, and so the annunciator startled her. A quick dabbing with her sleeve at each eye and a deep breath, and she called out permission to enter--nothing she could do would hide the fact that she'd been crying, but at least she wouldn't be when the visitor came in.

To her surprise, it was Geordi and two of his lieutenants. "Hey, sorry if we're interrupting," Geordi exclaimed.

"What is it?" She indicated a large crate the lieutenants were guiding along with portable anti-grav units.

"Mail call. It's from Data, addressed to you and the captain. I verified origin and if it's what I think it is, I figured it'd be better if we brought it here rather than letting it sit around the cargo bay." He stood aside while the lieutenants brought it inside and detached the units. "I think you'll like this one, Deanna. I've seen the technical data on it."

"Thank you, Geordi. And thank you both for bringing it."

Neither lieutenant looked directly at her, and Geordi's smile was forced as he joined them in backing out of the room. They left her to ponder the contents of the crate, a meter tall and two long, dull green as heavily-insulated crates tended to be. She undid the latches, two to a side, and pulled at the near end. It came open with a pop that indicated an air-tight seal. Movement in the dark interior startled her to stillness.

A large dog inched its way out of the crate, forced to maintain a reclining position for lack of standing room. Once its forequarters cleared the lid, it stretched and stood in a single fluid motion. Long jaws opened wide, exposing rows of yellowed teeth. It turned about, sat down, and dark amber eyes looked up at her.

"Hello," said a seemingly-disembodied voice. The dog's mouth didn't move. "Your name?"

"Deanna Troi," she replied, cautiously taking a few steps around it. The dog turned its head with her. Huge ears like sails on a boat stuck out from its head. "You're not a dog."

"I am a dog." The carefully-modulated voice reminded her of Data's, but only in that it was a pleasant tenor. "I am also a birthday present."

Deanna sat on the case. The dog came to sit in front of her--the voice was definitely male, but the body, streamlined and with a long tail for balance, was female, if lack of obvious genitalia meant the same as it did with other dogs she'd seen. No matter. She already thought of him as male. He was an even dark chestnut all over, save snips of white on his toes, on the end of the tail, and a tiny star in the center of his forehead. Not just a star--a five-pointed one, with the top point longer than the other four, too precise for a real animal. Such careful details.

"What breed are you?"

"I am modeled after the Pharoah hound, or Kelb tal-Fenek. This breed is believed to be one of the first domesticated dogs, and was kept in Egypt during the time of the pharaohs. For centuries the hounds were raised on the island of Malta, virtually unchanged through careful breeding. Sadly, in the generations following the Eugenics Wars, the breed was lost and there are no pureblooded examples left today." The recital reminded her of Data in the early years aboard the *Enterprise*,* pleasantly informative and computer-like.

"Do you have a name?"

"No. My father said that was best determined by you." It was odd to talk to a creature whose mouth did not move. She suspected the speaker must be in the neck. Data must have studied dogs for a long time before creating this--under the short hair, 'muscles' twitched, just as they might in a real animal. And what an intense consciousness in those eyes.

"Is there anything I should know about you?"

The earnest regard, the ears trained on her like antennae, started to make her a little nervous. "I am programmed to function as the family pet. I have a broad spectrum of defensive subroutines."

"And you can talk."

His head tilted left. "Is that unusual?"

Deanna smiled and almost petted him, hesitating as she wondered if an apparently-sentient creature wouldn't object, but he butted the palm of her outstretched hand. His smooth coat felt silky. Real. Running a hand down his neck, she marveled at the illusion of tendon and loose skin sliding over muscle. She scratched behind his ears and his tail thumped the floor. A dog, programmed just for them.

"I must verify your identity," he said, licking the back of her hand. "Confirmed. DNA matched." His tongue wasn't unpleasantly wet or abrasive, but pliable and moist enough to be convincing. Deanna wondered what sensor equipment Data had adapted to this application.

"Do you know why Data created an android dog instead of getting us a real one?"

"He said that you disliked pets because of your empathy. I am not certain why empathy would preclude the presence of animals. He said that because I am incapable of emotion, I would be more tolerable to you. And, because I am able to understand complex commands and do not require grooming, feeding, or other upkeep associated with normal pets, Captain Picard would likely tolerate my presence as well."

"He's probably right. I suppose you have extensive programming to cope with children."

"I have been tested with children of various ages. I am programmed extensively to play safely with any child. My coat is easily cleaned, repels most liquids, and does not stain."

Deanna stood up--the dog was on his feet at once, sidling and wagging his tail as if anticipating play. He wasn't as large as he'd seemed at first; his shoulder came to just above her knee and his long neck put his head level with her hip. He walked at her side as she went to the replicator and addressed it with specific instructions.

"All dogs living on the ship wear collars for identification and for easy control if necessary." She picked up the black collar and unbuckled it. "Computer, I need a standard pet ID tag, silver, coded for standard child-enabled entry protocols. Stamp the name 'Fidele' in Standard on one side, the location of these quarters on the other."

"Is Fidele my name?" the dog asked as she buckled the collar around his neck and attached the tag.

"It's French for 'loyal' and yes, it's your name. This tag will allow you to enter any area on the ship in which children are allowed, and it will allow you to leave or enter these quarters freely. That should keep you and Yves out of trouble. Now, about Yves."

"He will be four years old," Fidele said. "Father said I would likely become his companion and friend."

"Yes," Deanna said, stroking his head, already fond of him--why wouldn't she be, he was Data all over again, even to the way he cocked his head to one side when puzzled. "I want you to adjust your programming. Can you do that?"

"Yes. It is part of my function. To adapt to this family."

"I want to designate your primary function. I want it to override all other functions."

"I am programmed to accept alteration of basic governing subroutines within the initial eight hours of arrival aboard the *Enterprise*.* Changing primary function," the dog echoed, his voice becoming less warm and appealing.

"Your primary function is to protect Yves Picard. You will keep him safe by any non-violent means you must use, and if this is not possible, you will resort to violence. You will keep him aboard the *Enterprise* unless Captain Picard and I both instruct you to let him leave, and when he does leave, you will go with him to protect him. Any threat to his physical well-being requires your intervention. Do you need more specific instruction in this?"

"Threat," Fidele said mechanically, his eyes distant and empty. "Any blow with an appendage or instrument. Any weapon, brandished in a manner consistent with its usage and in conjunction with its being brought into the appropriate range from which it is used. Any medical implement used against the will of the intended recipient; corollary, medical implement used where there is no condition warranting usage of specific implement. Any action to cause a change in environment that may prove injurious, such as the opening of an airlock or release of chemicals into air supply, without proper deployment of safety measures. Any unknown creature or entity picking up, detaining, or imprisoning a person by any means. Additional parameters?"

"Additional parameter. Defensive actions may be halted by the agreement of any two members of the *Enterprise* crew, if they have the means by which to take control of the threat. Additional parameter. You are to defend Yves even if the threat is a member of the *Enterprise* crew, or a member of his family. Additional parameter. If the apparent threat is explained to you as a necessary action for Yves' welfare, such as a medical procedure, you are to seek confirmation from one of his parents, or if the threat is made by a parent, from the other parent. Additional parameter. This protection will extend to any sibling of Yves Picard."

She paused, trying to think of contingencies she hadn't imagined. Data may have already covered everything--he knew what living in space could be like.

"Additional parameter. You will not, under any circumstances, harm any child, even if one threatens Yves. Exception. A child about to use deadly force must be stopped even if that requires non-fatal injury. Additional parameter. All governing functions may be altered only by and with permission of both myself and Captain Picard. Both of us must be present to reset parameters concerning governing functions. Set parameters."

A flicker in the eyes, and a blink. "Primary function set."

"State governing parameters."

"Primary function, protect Yves Picard from harm. Secondary function, protect and provide companionship for family members, obey their directives when not in conflict with primary function, excepting directives to injure or kill non-threatening life forms. Tertiary function, protect any sentient being within grouping 'friend' from harm. Corollary parameters and all other functions governed by these overriding rules in situations where either/or decision-making is necessary, instruction sets loaded to aid judgement in instances of conflicting function parameters. Subroutines providing guidance in abstract applications of ethical--"

"Fidele, that's enough." Enough to tell her that Data had taken no shortcuts in programming. She suspected the dog had enough layers of subroutines to give her another hour of multi-syllabic technical data before he even waxed specific.

"I must identify Yves Picard."

That made sense. "Come with me."

He stayed precisely at her heel all the way to the day care and sat on her command to wait in the corridor. Yves and the other children were constructing fortresses using sticky-blocks, but he came to her when she called. Cecily glanced up from the tumble of rainbow-hued blocks but remained seated on the floor and involved with her other four charges.

Yves hid behind her when he saw the dog. "Sa dog," he cried, clutching her pants leg.

"It's a gift from Data. Remember Data? His name is Fidele. Go pet him. Go on."

Fidele watched Yves intently. Yves watched Deanna fondle the dog's ears and pet him, then reached out himself. His fingers brushed the dog's neck, he put the other hand up to touch, and Fidele bent elegantly to lick the back of Yves' hand.

"DNA analyzed. Confirmation?"

"Confirm identity of Yves Picard."

Yves jumped back and pointed at Fidele. "He talked!"

"Fidele is a very special dog," she said, dropping to one knee slowly, mindful of her back. She gripped her son's shoulder and leaned closer. "He's very smart. But he talks only to our family, not to anyone else, not in front of anyone else. Just to us, when there's no one else around. All right?" Otherwise there would be unwanted interest, questions, anything from where a similar dog could be found to abduction attempts.

Yves, round-eyed and open-mouthed, touched Fidele's nose and yanked back his hand. The dog opened his mouth, tongue lolling out, and thumped his tail. Happy canine.

"Would you like to take him to school with you for the rest of the day?"

Yves wriggled, unsure of what to do and wanting to touch the dog, torn between fear and want. He'd seen puppies before, even dogs, but he'd never seen anything like Fidele--the other dogs aboard were furry and plump and happy-faced, nothing like this lean red hound with huge ears.

Deanna put an arm around Fidele. He still felt real when hugged, though she thought she could feel the hardness of metal skeleton when she squeezed tighter. "He's a good dog. He loves you. He won't ever hurt you."

Fidele ducked low, nosed Yves' stomach, and wagged his tail. Yves giggled and began to maul the dog's head, patting and pulling ears, and Fidele endured with his tail beating the carpet and a doggy open-mouthed smile.

They went into the school room with Yves hanging on to Fidele's collar, and it brought Cecily to her feet. Deanna gestured her close while the children mobbed Yves and the dog. "He's not a real dog," Deanna said softly.

"Where did he come from?" Cecily couldn't tear her eyes from the children, and made an abortive lunge forward when a two-year-old boy grabbed an ear and dragged Fidele's head down. The dog bore it all with stoic, spraddle-legged determination.

"Data made him. An early birthday present for Yves. He's perfect for young children. He doesn't even stain."

Cecily laughed. "An artificial dog. I've seen something like it before, but nothing so convincing. What an odd breed."

"It's just like Data to pick something unique. Is it all right if I leave him with Yves?"

"I hope he's indestructible."

Deanna chuckled as the two-year-old tried to climb on Fidele's back. The dog sank to the floor and rolled, slowly enough to tip the child gently to the floor. "Don' do dat to my dog," Yves shouted, pulling on Fidele's collar. The only girl in the group began to cry and tug at the collar from the other side.

"That's my cue. I don't know if I should thank you for bringing him or not, but this looks to be an interesting afternoon." Cecily went to intervene before things worsened, and Deanna noted with satisfaction that the dog obeyed her command to move aside and sit in the corner while she sorted out and placated and scolded the children.

"Davidson to Troi."

Deanna left the room before responding. "What is it, Ben?" she asked over the noise of the little girl's wails and Yves' insistence that it was his dog and Kelly should leave him alone.

"I need to talk to you. Cant's with the captain. Can you meet me in your office? She's using mine."

"I'll be right there. Troi out."

A last glance at the kids. Cecily had them sitting around the table, and distributed coloring padds with outlines of animals on them. Fidele sat at Yves' side, looking at Yves' padd. Yves asked him what color the turtle's shell should be and the dog used his nose to poke the dark green square on the palette along the bottom of the padd. While Yves touched the square with his stylus and scribbled, Fidele raised his head, looked over his shoulder at her, and winked.

Her smile stayed with her all the way to deck two. Data was due for a hug the next time she saw him.

############

"Captain," the counselor chided.

Picard turned around, arms crossed, determined to resist this girl. She must have been all of twenty. She reminded him of Deanna but that was only the common Betazoid trait of the eyes--she had a pointed chin, was taller and thinner and used different perfume (too sweet, too chemical), had pale straight hair longer in front than in back. She wore a bright blue pantsuit, not a uniform, but her credentials as quoted when he arrived said she was a lieutenant and a psychiatrist. She had to be older than twenty, then, unless they were putting children through college and medical school. Her manner reminded him of a cat his mother had once owned--Minou had had the self-assuredness of a lion and only her mistress' loyalty had saved her from being flung across the room when she took up residence in Papa's chair.

Cant leaned on the desk, which had belonged to Deanna and now belonged to Davidson, either of which would have been more welcome. "Captain?"

He glanced at her and noticed one of the damnable seagulls sitting on the back of her chair, feet tucked under. The things were everywhere now. He'd taken to ignoring them, as well as the other aberrations. The dark-eyed whispering aliens only appeared in viewports, and there were none in this office. Just the pastel abstract painting in which he'd been feigning interest.

They had sent Cant because she was female and Betazoid. They had sent her to get 'under his skin.' Was this Troi's idea?

Cant's smile dwindled. Damn Betazoid. Already reading his mind.

"What do you want, Miss--Cant, you said?"

"I told you. Starfleet is worried about you."

"Starfleet worries about itself, mostly. I don't see the point in endlessly evaluating me--I'm restless and I'd like to get back to work. What's so difficult about that?"

"If you would only answer my questions, this would be over with much quicker."

"What questions?"

"How do you feel?"

He laughed curtly. "Restless. Tired of questions."

She glanced at the monitor, as if she had to. "Your counselor reports persistent memory lapses. Do you have any gaps in your memory, that you can perceive as such?"

"I don't remember."

She laughed indulgently and shook her head. "At least you have a sense of humor about this. I meant, for example, finding yourself somewhere but not remembered how you got there. Obvious time lapses you can't reconcile against the ship's chronometer."

"I fail to see the necessity of this interview when my own counselor has already made a diagnosis."

"Then perhaps I can shed some light on the reason I am here." She folded her hands before her, leaning, pale hair spilling forward from her shoulders to hang straight. "Admiral Farok launched an investigation to ascertain what happened on your mission to Khevlin, if abandoning the Asili fleet was a mistake, and whether your condition warranted your removal from command. My assignment is the assessment of your mental state. I was led to believe you disagreed with your counselor and doctor. Are you now in agreement with them, and if so, why did you change your mind?"

"I haven't." Nor had he necessarily disagreed with the diagnoses, but as quickly as he thought of it that admission fled from conscious thought. "I am only concerned with the Asili, and what negotiations and a treaty would have meant to the Federation. Whatever incapacity I suffered was secondary to that--I had established a rapport, I should have been allowed to continue."

"Your first officer disagreed. She believed your condition clouded your judgement."

"I should have been allowed to continue for the sake of the mission. It was worth the risk. Are you aware of current intelligence reports about the size and strength of the Randra Alliance's fleet? Do you know how outnumbered we are, if the Alliance decided to invade?"

"I don't know anything about Starfleet intelligence reports, Captain, but surely you see that the sooner you cooperate with me, the sooner you'll be able to resume negotiations with the Asili, if that's what is necessary."

"Resuming might not be an option. This may be a catastrophe from which we cannot recover."

Cant studied him silently, until he nearly fidgeted in frustration. "You believe, then, that Commander Troi has destroyed our chances of negotiating with the Asili. How do you feel about this?"

"What I feel isn't the issue," he exclaimed.

"If you believe negotiations aren't possible, why be concerned with the Asili, and not angry with Troi?"

Words failed him. Trying to articulate his reasons left him struggling to think straight. "It's not that simple," he managed.

"What about Commander Troi as your wife? How do you feel about her?"

"I love her, I suppose." He noted the surprise in her eyes. "Isn't that what one does?"

"I meant how you feel about your wife right now."

"I don't believe that my wife is a germane topic. My first officer, however, has taken over my ship and scuttled a mission that stood a good chance at success. I can't understand why she didn't simply discuss options with me rather than taking over and undermining my authority that way."

"But you concede that there was some basis for concern as to your state of mind. If you recall regulations in cases of captains under alien control, as in cases of brainwashing, telepathic influence, assimilation, or in temporary or permanent states of mental dysfunction, the first officer has to intervene. If there is suspicion of telepathic or mechanical connection to hostile entities, the first officer must balance the safety of ship and crew against continuing a facade long enough to prove or disprove that theory, as well as gathering any data that might be helpful in preventing a recurrence of such phenomena in the future."

Picard glared down at her. "I am aware of the regulations. Nevertheless, the mission was more important." He gestured at the gull standing on the end of the desk. It stared at him with red eyes and stretched its wings one at a time. Cant's eyes followed his gesture, but she said nothing.

"You think she should have taken the security risk and discussed this with you in detail. But you withheld information from her."

"I withheld nothing."

The dark eyes didn't waver. "You returned from eight days among the Asili, decided that they should become the priority, and did not brief anyone, nor did you substantiate your reason for assuring the Asili that there would be Federation membership for them. You didn't think your own crew needed to understand why you were doing such a thing in spite of the Asili attacking them some weeks before, and in spite of an Asili attack on a Federation scientific outpost outside Alliance borders?"

"The crew is supposed to follow my orders," he exclaimed, pacing the frustratingly-small distance from one wall to the other. "I had no time for a briefing before the reception, and I was relieved of duty before I could give one."

"Really?" Her eyes traveled to the monitor again. "You had nearly two days between the reception and being relieved of duty. Tell me what happened during that time."

He paced, frowning, arms crossed. This again. He clearly remembered the reception, the morning spent in sickbay enduring tests, the bridge and ready room, and not being able to access his own logs. He had assumed his command codes had changed and he couldn't remember them because of amnesia--in hindsight he saw now that it must have been them, locking him out, and it angered him.

"Captain? Have you forgotten?"

"Damned doctor," he grumbled.

Cant steepled her fingers, hands on the desk in front of her again. "Have you forgotten the time between returning to the *Enterprise* and--"

"No. I remember quite well. I was locked out of my own logs. Restricted computer access, and everyone was skulking around, not being up front with me--what was I supposed to think?" He rushed the desk, planted his hands on the cold surface, and the gull tipped itself off and vanished. In its place on the black desktop was the reflection of the black-eyed alien. Anger redoubled itself.

"You believed they were mutinous?" Cant said softly. "You didn't tell the admiral this."

"They're my crew! I had no concrete proof. No time to ascertain who I could trust, what was going on--the doctor kept dragging me off to sickbay and the counselor kept after me, and the next thing I know we're at a starbase and the Asili are nowhere to be found."

"You didn't ask Commander Troi for an explanation?"

"I asked."

"Do you trust her? Did you trust her?"

He straightened. The change of vantage point made the image of the alien in the desk vanish. He waited for several breaths, closed his eyes for a moment, glanced around him. "I know now that I was wrong," he said, exhaling. "That some of what I believed was paranoia, that the injuries I sustained were dire and perhaps the K'korll were unable to be as thorough as I hoped. No one likes to believe they might be having delusions, or forgetting things, or that they're incompetent. Commander Troi did what she thought best at the time. They all did. They're a good crew. But the fact remains--the welfare of the Federation rests on our ability to establish some sort of peace with the Alliance, and due to the fragmented nature of the Alliance we have to do that one species at a time. The Asili are one of the more important ones to befriend."

The counselor considered it. When she tilted her head, her hair swayed. She pushed it behind her ear. "Counselor Davidson mentions that you had difficulty remembering your wife. Then yesterday, you also forgot your first officer. I find it interesting that you've compartmentalized her roles in your life to that extreme, that you could forget the wife but not the officer. Davidson tells me she was also your counselor before stepping down when she became involved with you. Do you remember her in that role?"

He paused. "I think so. It's all so distant. As if I were remembering a book I'd read."

"Was she your favorite counselor?"

"If one could have a favorite counselor. I've never cared for counseling."

"What did you appreciate the most about her as a counselor?"

He gripped the back of the chair, deep in thought, though not in the way she probably expected. "I suppose. . . that would have to be the way she handled my recovery from the Borg. She let me work through most of it on my own."

"You're very independent."

"I try to be. You have to be, in some ways, to be a captain. You have to be sure of yourself. Dissenting opinions are sometimes helpful, other times, hindering."

"What do you think they should have done, after you were assimilated?" Her eyes were on the monitor. What parts of his record did she have access to?

"It's not relevant."

"You expressed some dissatisfaction at one point. Tell me about it."

He stared at the desk. Instead of the alien, he saw there his own reflection, the dancing of the red beam, the dull sheen of the metal, the pale gray of the untouched half of his face, the tubes snaking from the side of his head down to his torso.

"My crew used what they learned from me to defeat the Borg," he murmured.

"But at first, were you angry?"

"No."

"Later?"

He straightened his shoulders and jerked at his jacket unnecessarily. "I fail to see the relevance of this line of questioning."

"Deanna was your counselor. She saw you through one of the most difficult times of your life, through all the conflicting emotions you must have felt. Anger is one of the most common human responses in times of stress -- it can be a powerful and overwhelming emotion, especially when coupled with fear."

"Your point?" he snapped.

"She described your emotional state since your return as atypical and indicative of trauma running deeper than Counselor Davidson is yet able to ascertain. She has considerable first-hand experience with your emotional states in many extreme circumstances."

"Are you here to assess my condition or draw conclusions from second-hand sources?"

"You're angry."

"Yes. Did you sense that, or were you just guessing?" He scowled and paced again, round and round in the small office.

"Sarcasm is not necessary, Captain. I realize how this must seem. I am only trying to determine how your behavior in this instance could result in your being relieved of duty."

He stopped, then stopped his fists from clenching, stopped breathing, stopped trying to think two steps ahead of her. Betazoid. Telepathic. Closing his eyes, he inhaled, focused, and drew upon the echoes of a hive mind he'd done his best to forget but never could. Echoes, memories, voices of thousands, data of millions of minds swirling together. Telepaths had been assimilated. Once within the Collective, a telepath ceased to function as such, only had the thoughts of a drone, and sensing the thoughts of other drones was superfluous. Redundant. Inefficient. The thoughts of the unassimilated were inconsequential.

Locutus stared out at the interior of the cube, the voices of the Collective whispering, the battle raging all around--he could see the ships as if he himself were standing in the center of it all, and he was, the Collective was. The cube was part of the Collective.

The voices grew louder. Telemetry streamed. Drones dispatched to repair critical areas of the cube. Drones lost. Compensation.

Multiple targets. Saucer separation. Shuttle.

What were they doing? It was irrelevant. Many more ships than this had attacked at once and been defeated, this new tactic was inconsequential. They could not defeat a Borg cube. Thrumming, orderly thought all around, complete awareness of the presence of intruders within the cube--it did not matter. Others had intruded in similar fashion, even damaged components or drones. The Collective would continue. The Collective was all.

Picard opened his eyes. Still in the counselor's office. He turned to the desk, to the counselor behind it. Jesala stared, pale and swallowing nervously as he met her eyes.

"I don't care for uninvited guests," he said softly, a twist in his lip. "Is that understood, Lieutenant?"

"Yes. Sir." She cleared her throat.

He took the last step. The door opened. He stared at her, and when she said nothing, only pursed her lips, he strode out.

############

"I suppose that means they'll ask me questions as well."

"And the rest of the senior officers." Deanna watched Ben pace then settle in a chair. "It's an important issue. They have to know what really happened, and the captain going to Farok was enough to make the admiral question what took place. The captain does appear perfectly normal."

"Except he isn't, and none of us have claimed that he is--isn't that enough for them?"

Deanna sighed, elbows propped on her desk. She needed a trip to the nearest restroom, but not urgently. "This investigation is not damaging to us, there's plenty of objective data supporting our actions. It's just a nuisance that the captain is behaving so out of character that he would do this."

"Which is, of course, the most obvious symptom that something's wrong, and the least obvious to people like the admiral who haven't worked with him." Ben rubbed his forehead, along his brow, then shoved his hair back unnecessarily. "What about this Cant? Do you know anything about her?"

"She's one of the counselors assigned to the station. Farok called the station counselor and Cant arrived a short time later. Why?"

"She rubbed me the wrong way, I guess. It's not easy to take--she just barged right in and announced she needed my notes and my office."

Deanna pursed her lips. "It's not a criticism of you, it's the investigation. This is a high profile case--or it will be, in certain circles. She's performing an assessment of Captain Picard on the order of an admiral. Her attitude suggests to me that she's seeing this as an opportunity."

"Excuse me if I don't feel too good about that. If she botches the job, her assessment may turn this investigation into an albatross for all of us."

"Albatross," Deanna repeated, frowning.

Ben regarded her open-mouthed for a moment. "It's an old literary reference. A metaphor. There was this old man. . . you know, it doesn't matter. What I meant was that it might haunt us for a long time to come. Turn the investigation into something that won't go away. If she thinks he's competent they'll start at the top and work their way through the crew. Take apart our logs, pick through the sensor data--"

A comm tone interrupted him. Deanna tapped her badge. "Troi here."

"Commander, I have the results of that sensor log investigation you had me running."

"Come to my office, Mr. LaForge."

"On my way."

"I should be going, I have--" Ben was interrupted in mid-rise and mid-sentence by another comm announcement. Deanna held up a hand to stop him as she responded once again.

"Troi here."

"Sir, Admiral Nechayev is requesting permission to come aboard."

"Granted. Thank you, Mr. deOrda." Deanna exchanged a surprised look with Ben. "This is unexpected."

"I thought she was retiring. Great, now what's she want?"

"We'll find out soon enough. Troi to Carlisle --please meet Admiral Nechayev in transporter room one. See what she wants and escort her to one of the briefing rooms."

"Aye, sir--but I thought it was Farok -- "

"She may not be here as part of the investigation. Just let me know what's going on when you find out."

Geordi arrived seconds later, and Ben departed, giving her one last dubious look over his shoulder. "What's with him?" Geordi asked, handing a padd across the desk.

"You'll find out soon enough. Have a seat."

"Okay," Geordi said uncertainly. "Mind if I get something to drink? Want anything?"

"Preset number seven." She read through the report while he was at the replicator. When he put the glass at her elbow, she knew he was wrinkling his nose. Humans usually did when they got a whiff of the herbal remedy she resorted to when she felt vaguely nauseated in spite of medication. "I'll be right back."

She took the report with her. She returned with an empty bladder to find Geordi involved in the contents of another padd; he set it aside quickly as she reached the desk. "Well?"

"It's not much, but it's more than we had. Is this a progress or a final?"

"Final. Sensor logs are more detailed when we know what to look for and make adjustments prior to running the scans."

Deanna sipped, glanced at the other padd, and asked, "What's that?"

"Just something I've been working on in my spare time. How's the captain?"

"Since this morning? Not much different. He went to Farok, however, and now there's an investigation afoot. You should expect a summons."

"Damn," Geordi muttered. "That's all we need."

"The captain's not obviously impaired. Given Starfleet's anxiety where the Alliance is concerned, I'm not surprised."

"You're not worried."

Deanna shook her head. "I am, but not about what happened. We did the right thing. What worries me is the captain and the outcome of this investigation. If they decide the captain is right, not only will I have a crisis in my family, but Starfleet will probably send someone back to negotiate with a fleet of cannibalistic primitives."

"Primitives?" Geordi blinked, doing a double-take.

"They're like the Pakleds, Geordi. They have technology but they don't understand it. They learn how to operate their ships by rote. I saw evidence of that when I was aboard their vessel. deLio commented in his report that they don't follow the same protocols as most starship crews--or any protocols that he could discern. They're unkempt, they allow their children the run of the ship, they don't appear to be concerned that they're allowing a potentially-dangerous environment continue."

The engineer blinked again, stunned by this--a self-contained environment in space had to be maintained to certain standards, any plant or animal life kept under supervision. Not knowing what was going on within an artificial environment could result in unhealthy and dangerous conditions.

"I think they're footsoldiers," Deanna continued, sipping her pungent tea. "I think the Alliance gave the Asili those ships before they had spaceflight themselves."

"Huh," Geordi responded, thinking about it. "I guess I can see it--that last ship, the silver one, was more advanced than anything the Asili had. If you're right, the Alliance doesn't really care about the welfare of the Asili. Giving them castoffs, maybe. Making them spear carriers in the conquest of. . . ." He trailed off, watching her face warily.

"Waxing erudite," she said, smiling. "That extra padd is your novel, isn't it?"

Geordi shrugged sheepishly. "I've been so busy, I've been carrying it around to distract me on breaks."

"You're going to let me read it someday, I hope."

"It's just a draft, but yeah. But if you don't have time--"

"I'd like to get a look at it. Make sure I'm not in there anywhere under a different name."

Geordi blushed, something she sensed more than saw. "I wouldn't do that."

"I'm sure you won't." Deanna clasped her hands on the desk. "There's something I'd like to tell you, Geordi, just between us for now. It's about your career."

"My career?"

"Before--all this, the captain and I discussed alternatives for my replacement while I am on maternity leave. We agreed that you would be the best choice, if you wanted the experience and the promotion that came with it."

Geordi gaped at her. "Oh," he blurted, exhaling at last.

"While it was a given that it would likely result in your departure when I came back from leave, you deserve the opportunity. But, with the current circumstances, I can't be certain of where I will be, or the captain. So the options I see now are these. In a best-case scenario, the captain recovering and the return to business as usual, we could go forward with this, if you accept. In a worst-case scenario. . . I would give a recommendation that you be considered to take my place, or at least be offered a similar position on another vessel."

"Oh." Geordi's implants whirled open and returned to the almost-closed position he used in normal lighting when interacting with people. "Wow. I'm flattered and--you know. I'll think about it."

"You were thinking of leaving," she guessed, reading his guilt. "Which is perfectly understandable."

"It's not that I don't enjoy my job--"

"It's just that you want more than this. New challenges. I understand the compulsion."

He sniffed, his shoulders relaxing as he leaned back again. "I suppose so. I was actually thinking of getting out of Starfleet altogether. But, first officer--that would certainly be a change of pace."

"And there is one other option that may yet develop out of this situation," she said, losing her smile. Though her voice wavered, she made it to the end of her thought. "There is a remote possibility that I might be given command. In that case, I would request that you be assigned as my first officer."

This time, Geordi's mouth hung open for several heartbeats. He slid to the edge of his seat and leaned to wrap his hand over hers. "He'll be all right. You have to believe that."

"Yes, but I also have to consider the possibilities. I have to be ready for anything."

"But you can't lose hope."

"I haven't. I just wish these things would stop happening when I'm pregnant. I'm two for two. At least I'm not likely to give birth on duty this time."

Geordi's hand tightened. "Just don't forget you have friends, all right? Don't isolate yourself. How's Yves doing?"

She found that her throat wouldn't open to set free a response. Not that she had one, she realized, other than a sudden and dangerous rush of emotions she couldn't allow at that moment, in uniform and in her office and on duty. Three blinks, mouth closed, a swallow, and she rebounded, pulling her hands free of Geordi's, gently, putting them in her lap instead.

"He's not quite aware of what's wrong. He knows something's going on. But I think he'll be fine. The dog is a good distraction."

A smile at that. "How'd you like the dog?"

"He's amazing. Absolutely real, until he starts to talk. You'll have to come by and see him." Deanna found herself smiling again out of reflex, being polite. "Why don't you come visit us after dinner tonight? I'll introduce you and the two of you can help Yves build another one of those towers of blocks."

"I'd like that. Data tells me this dog was a project and a half. He and Phoebe spent weeks studying the nuances of canine behavior while putting him together. They didn't just rely on Data's dog, either, thank goodness." Geordi slumped sideways as he settled back and propped his left elbow on the arm of the chair. His weariness was starting to show, now that they'd gotten away from work topics.

The annunciator sounded. Both of them sat up straight. Deanna identified the visitor's species in the seconds before the door opened, and that narrowed down the visitor's possible identity to one Jesala Cant, who strode in with her face set in a most serious expression. She spared Geordi a glance before meeting Deanna's eyes.

"I thought you were talking to the captain," Deanna said.

A flicker of distress in her eyes barely hinted at the dismay Deanna sensed. "I was. He left rather abruptly. And after some consideration, I have decided that the best course of action is to ask for your help. You were his counselor."

"Mr. Davidson *is* his counselor."

"And you are also his wife," Cant continued, taking a few more steps that brought her to the edge of the desk. "And you will also have insights that Counselor Davidson will not."

Deanna sighed. "Counseling is not about what you sense from someone. I told you not to pry into the captain's thoughts."

It was an accurate guess, from the immediate surge of anxiety. Cant shook her head. "I'm not implying that only a Betazoid--"

"Yes, you are. But that's not the critical issue here--if you can't assess the captain's mental state, you should inform the admiral and request that another counselor be assigned to the task."

"I'm perfectly capable," Cant snapped, chin jutting like the prow of an old sailing ship.

"That's why you asked for my help?"

"I happen to believe, after speaking with him, that you are probably the only person he will trust at this point." She eyed Geordi, obviously not wanting to go into detail with him present.

"Thank you, Mr. LaForge. I suggest you see about the repairs and be ready to be called for an interview, as I explained."

"Sir." Geordi came to attention briefly, sidled around the chair, and left the office. Cant glanced at the lone picture on the wall, of the Betazed night sky with two half-moons washing a beach with pale light, and took the vacated chair.

"Why do you think he won't trust anyone?" Deanna asked.

"He's evasive. I tried to pin down how he feels about you, he dances around the subject like a *djeta* around a blossom, never landing. Your counselor's reports describe similar behavior in the last session, only at that time he remembered less about you. He remembers more now but pretends not to. I pressed him to discuss how he feels about your actions. The way he gets around actually addressing that is amazing--he has an answer for everything. I even suggested he should be angry at you and he told me it wasn't that simple, then proceeded to explain just how much he respects you and the rest of the crew while insisting that your collective actions were misguided. And there is an underlying pain that I cannot understand, faint but always present, and he doesn't seem to acknowledge or perhaps even know it's there."

"He knows," Deanna said, responding to the simplest part of this first. "He chooses to ignore it."

"Does he always approach everything so rationally? Suppress so much of himself?"

"He was much worse before. Part of the current abnormality is a partial reversion to repressive behavior, but the more telling symptoms are in his responses to the Asili. And the amnesia was extremely troubling to all of us, since we have no way of knowing what he's forgotten that might have caused poor judgement in the course of what was left of the mission."

Cant watched her face intently. "You're not anxious about this investigation."

"Concerned, yes, but I wouldn't call it anxiety."

"Are you concerned about your husband?"

Deanna knew Cant had been reading her throughout -- everything would get back to the admiral in some form. "I am. But Captain Picard, in his normal state, would not want me to allow that to interfere with my duty. He would insist that I do whatever it takes to protect the Federation, and our crew, even if that means taking extreme measures against him. We've been through alien possessions and similar phenomena before--he will recover, and when he does, he'll thank me for what I've done."

"Because he trusts you."

"He trusts his officers."

"But you more than others."

Deanna frowned. "No. He trusts his officers, past and present. You have to understand that for him, under normal circumstances, trust is imperative. He chooses his officers carefully and then he trusts them. I have sensed doubt from him in some cases, but unless an officer behaves oddly, he never voices it."

"Then that's missing now. He said as much. But he still trusts you, in a way I find inexplicable, and for this reason, I'd like to sit down with the two of you and try again. I think it would help."

"No."

"You have a vested interest in helping him, I thought."

"You're supposed to do an assessment of him, independently of any of us."

"But I don't need you to speak, I need you to be an audience." Cant gestured with slender, pale fingers, the pink lacquer on her nails catching the light. "I want to see how he reacts to your presence."

Deanna considered this, glancing at her half-empty glass. If she drank any more she would only wind up in a restroom sooner than later, and the remedy seemed to have settled her stomach. Cant waited. At least she didn't seem so smug any more--she had focused on the task at hand, and this appeal had been made with all seriousness and genuine concern for the patient.

"Come with me." Deanna led the counselor from her office to the nearest lift. When they emerged on deck twelve, Cant glanced around them, noting the passing crew in exercise clothes.

"The gym," she said as Deanna led her into the facility.

"Hello, Thea," Deanna said to the woman behind the desk as she passed. Following her sense of him, she found the captain in the weight room. He was thin, she already knew that, but in the loose, short-sleeved workout grays he looked stringy. A faint ripple of a scar showed on his right biceps. He had his head down, considering the controls of the fourth multi-function machine in a row of six along the right wall.

"You're on the wrong machine," Deanna announced, trying not to be too loud. Her voice echoed anyway.

He jumped, did a double-take upon seeing Cant, and turned back to his study. "They're all the same."

"The third one from the door is always the captain's machine, everyone knows it. They leave it programmed as you set it. Not that you should be doing this at all--you should consult with the doctor first." She sat on the third machine, facing him. "The counselor tells me you're a difficult patient."

"I don't need counseling."

"Liar."

He raised his left leg over the end of the machine to face her directly, straightening. "What did you say?"

Deanna smiled, reaching across the half-meter of space between them to shove his knee. "You need a scolding. You think this investigation is all tied up neatly because you're right and the facts will prove out. I hope you don't think the fact that you won't cooperate with the counselor weighs in your favor?"

While he considered this, Deanna sensed Cant's growing amazement and wondered if it stemmed from her perception of the bond. Hajira was quite obvious to other Betazoids, no obtrusive thought-reading necessary.

"If it were detrimental to my case, why are you here?" he responded, the corner of his mouth rising.

"This isn't about who is wrong or right, Jean. This investigation is key to an issue that may impact the welfare of the Federation. I am here because the truth demands it, and that's exactly why you're going to get dressed and help Counselor Cant complete her assessment. Isn't it?"

"The objective truth is that my welfare is secondary to the possible outcome of diplomatic negotiations with--"

"That's not objective," Deanna exclaimed. "It's subjective. The objective truth is in the sensor logs, in the actions of the Asili, in the presence of an unidentified vessel that shadowed us for the duration of our mission. It was there when the Asili attacked, and it left us only when we left Alliance space. The truth is, you were injured severely and should have been relieved of duty immediately upon returning to the ship."

Anger contorted his face. He struggled with a response, hands tightening on the edge of the cushioned bench on either side of him.

"Do you remember the *Essex*? Or the time Geordi almost killed Governor Vagh?"

"I am not possessed, or brainwashed," he snapped, grabbing the references like a lifeline.

"Prove it."

He came up from the bench at once, determined and furious. Then, a hesitation. He teetered between disbelief and begrudging admiration. "You almost manipulated me into it, didn't you?"

"If you don't cooperate fully with the counselor, you're going to force me to do worse. Or do you expect me to take for granted that you'll be safe around the children?"

Verbal round-house punch to the head--he even flinched as if it were an actual blow. "I would never--"

"Prove it."

"You're not giving me much benefit of the doubt."

"You're not giving me much reason to. Avoiding post-mission counseling--I thought I broke you of that habit years ago. Don't tell me you can't remember, you said just last night that you did."

"If you don't trust me then why did you let me --" He halted with a glance at their wide-eyed onlooker.

"I didn't say I don't trust you. I'm saying that I can't afford to take any chances. I want to trust you, but if our positions were reversed, I would certainly hope you would take the same precautions." She stood, and when her leg brushed his he sidled away. "The very fact that you're resisting counseling is a warning sign."

He jabbed a finger at Cant. "She isn't my counselor! You are!" As he recognized the mistake, his arm drifted down and he swallowed.

"I'm not," Deanna said softly. "And that's warning sign number two. Do what you think is best, Jean-Luc. Nothing will change how I feel about you, but you know my limits."

"Deanna," he murmured. "I'm not dangerous."

"I can't take that at face value."

Their eyes met, and held. He seemed to forget Cant, who stood unmoving, apparently not even breathing.

"You're threatening me. That's hardly fair."

"You're not cooperating, and there's no rational reason for you not to." Deanna crossed the half-meter between them in a step. "Tell me what you would want me to do if I ever suspected that your mind had been somehow tampered with."

His jaw clenched, the muscles moving and loosening, and his head went up another centimeter. "I would expect you to place the welfare of the children first."

"So don't accuse me of threatening you."

His breath trickled over her upper lip. He swallowed again, his lips parted, and he backed a step, half-turning.

"And what about the crew?" she asked, noting how he tensed when he realized that he'd slipped. He should have considered the ship first.

"Their safety is important. They can, however, take care of themselves, unlike the children."

"That would almost be effective, if I weren't Betazoid. Go get dressed. Go with the counselor. It's Farok's orders, not mine, Jean-Luc."

He gestured violently with one hand. "I don't need counseling!" he shouted.

"Subjective opinion," Deanna exclaimed, advancing on him and forcing him to retreat. "Needing it is not the issue. An admiral wants her to assess your mental state and fitness for command, it's in your best interests to comply. Captain!"

Rank brought him back from retreat. She didn't give ground, leaning away as he tried to glare her into submission. "If I'm relieved of duty and you're harassing me, who's in command of this ship?"

"If you'll excuse me, I have a fleet admiral awaiting my presence. I'll tell Alynna you send your greetings," she replied evenly but firmly. Somehow Deanna extricated herself without touching him, though he came within centimeters of doing so, and shot Cant an intent, meaningful look as she passed the counselor. *You're on your own, that's all you'll get from me that resembles help. Do with it what you will.*

############

"You and the lieutenant found him in the rubble. Was he conscious?"

deLio sat stiffly, meeting the commander's gaze. "Briefly. But he was not coherent. Not until the K'korll healed him."

"The lieutenant's report describes his ravings in some detail. Yours summarizes them."

"The lieutenant was with him most of the time. I often was elsewhere, as I researched the possibility of contacting our ship and tried to understand our options. There is very little interstellar commerce between Khevlin and the rest of the sector, and after the Asili attacked, any vessels in orbit left quickly and did not return for the remainder of the away team's stay among the Khevil. The only option available to us to remove ourselves from the planet was the one offered, the K'korll."

"And you took that option because?"

"The captain needed medical attention the Khevlin could not give him. They said the K'korll could help him. While that does not necessarily mean they could, it was a chance we did not otherwise have. I knew the *Enterprise* would probably not return immediately; they did not know the captain was injured, nor did I know their status and therefore I could not predict a return. It was also an opportunity to investigate another Alliance species, one not mentioned in any intelligence report we had seen. We were on Khevlin because the Federation took them at their word that they were benevolent. If the K'korll could save the captain's life, it would be doubly beneficial."

The commander, whose role was not well-defined to deLio, glanced down at the padd on the table before him. He looked like so many other humans--brown hair cut short, dark eyes, round face, standard uniform--that deLio knew he would have trouble picking the man out of a group of officers. Farok had introduced him as Commander Getty with no other identifier and left them there in one of the *Enterprise*'s briefing rooms, bound for the bridge to arrange further meetings with other *Enterprise* officers.

"Tell me about the K'korll."

deLio thought about the dark aliens, looming silently, watching the away team with glittering eyes. "They have no mouths. Verbal communication is not possible. They don't appear to have ears, either. Though they are humanoid in general appearance I suspect they have little else in common with the majority of humanoid species in the galaxy. I did not see how they take in nourishment, nor did I observe much of their culture. McGinnis suggested that since their communication was solely telepathic, observation of their culture would have to be performed by telepaths -- I agree. Though they did make contact with us, they did not do so often, nor did they share anything about themselves. Their communications were limited to the bare necessities --our accommodations, the captain's condition, what we required to survive. Nothing beyond that."

"They didn't ask you for details about the Federation or Starfleet?"

"No. Nor were they interested in differences between my species and that of my companions. They obviously noticed that we were of separate species--they asked quite pointedly what sort of food I needed, then asked what the captain and McGinnis needed." deLio, in the wake of the meeting with the other officers and Deanna's assertions of her beliefs surrounding the K'korll and whether they were hostile or not, had mulled over his stay on K'korll and listed out the questions the aliens had asked. That turned out to be a good thing.

"Could they have ascertained the differences by telepathic intrusion?"

"If they had done so, why would they have asked what food we needed, or about the chemical composition of the captain's blood? Or any of the other details they needed to begin the healing, and did ask about?"

"So, you don't think they had malicious motives."

"I did my best to investigate their motives -- they were not forthcoming, saying only that they would heal the captain and provide food while we were there. After coming to the conclusion that they must be malicious, we left --in retrospect, I realize that there were multiple interpretations for what seemed to me to be suspicious behavior. I made conclusions influenced by my own subjective reactions. I experienced bad dreams; my species do not normally dream. I was on edge and increasingly wary, and it may not have been justified."

Getty stared at his padd for a few moments, forehead wrinkling, narrow eyebrows drawing together. "Mr. deLio, you describe the captain's behavior as worrisome--describe for me what bothered you, exactly."

He had done so in the report, but irritation at this point would be counterproductive. Part of the investigator's duty was to determine whether or not reports had been falsified. deLio's reactions to having to repeat information could be construed as reason to examine the events in the logs more closely still.

"The captain showed extremes of emotional reaction to various events or comments. When dealing with the Asili in an official capacity, he could be quite lucid and normal, but inconsequential things seemed to elicit odd reactions. He would mutter disjointed phrases in his sleep, often references to swans or birds or giving orders such as course changes or retreats, but he did not remember them when awake. McGinnis mentioned him talking in his dreams and he claimed not to have had any."

Getty smiled superficially. "That's normal for humans. We dream all the time and remember very little about them."

"Neither did he remember what the references to a swan meant, when awake. Or that he had married, or that certain senior officers he had in the past had been reassigned. There were gaps in his memory that worried me."

"You know what significance a swan has?"

deLio nodded. "It is a nickname he used for his wife."

"So you knew something was amiss. But when you returned, you told the doctor you did not believe the captain should report to sickbay immediately."

"It was a pivotal moment. At that time, I was not of the opinion that the Asili were suspect. I did not realize the full scope of what had happened to the *Enterprise* nor did I know all that I now understand about the Asili. I believed at the time that there was still a chance of diplomatic progress with them."

"You do not believe that now."

deLio thought of the wild expression Troi had had coming out of the meeting with Ze, and the object she had dropped from her sleeve in the transporter room. He noticed Getty's eyes widen and deflated his top cheek sacs, which had begun to inflate.

"My people were once pack hunters, very effective and deadly ones. We retain many of the traits that typify the predatory lifestyle. I found an immediate kinship with the Asili because of this. However, my people do not consume other sentient beings. Such behavior is abhorrent. I do not believe the Asili are sufficiently advanced in this most crucial way. I am sickened at the thought that they may yet become part of the Federation. If that happens I will not hesitate to resign and return to L'noriss, where I will confront the elders of my dost to inform them of the inappropriateness of Federation membership for our species."

The commander swallowed once and stared across the table. deLio had found that the majority of officers did not know much about L'norim culture, and that would have meant such a threat would not be taken seriously. But Getty seemed to understand the ramifications of what deLio had said. Perhaps he had been more prepared than he had seemed to be.

Getty composed himself and looked again at the padd. "Tell me about the captain's offer to the Asili--what exactly did he promise them?"

############

"I can't tell you that." Picard barely kept himself still. He had always found the counselor's office claustrophobic; it seemed more so now than ever.

He had dressed, left the gymnasium, and gone with the counselor, only to be barraged with more of the same questions. How did he feel, about a long list of people and events. He kept up, guessing at answers sometimes. Getting through it in the name of cooperation was the goal. This wasn't like being questioned by Counselor Troi.

"Because you don't want to, because you can't, or . . . ?" Cant, elbows on the desk, brought her hands up beneath her chin.

"Can't."

"Is this a choice you are making, or is it that you try and fail?"

He closed his eyes as the black-winged gull stretched its wings in preparation to launch itself at him from the back of the counselor's chair. "Fail."

"Captain?"

His impatience blossomed into anger. Against the darkness of his eyelids, redness swirled. "Don't remember."

"Well, since you can't remember the attack and what you were doing before, what do you remember about Khevlin?"

"The D'ria took me to see the other members of the Khevil government. They welcomed me with some sort of formal ceremony, and I returned the gesture by inviting them aboard." He could see the Khevil, their high foreheads glistening gray, the fluttering flaps of their noses, the four gleaming yellow eyes. Their fingers with knobby knuckles and extra joints.

"What happened when they came aboard?"

The transporter room, the hooting voices, drawled vowel sounds through long, wide mouths, the resonation of words--the translator did nothing to alter the sounds, just filtered the words into Standard for him. "I took them to the reception area on deck nine, forward. They had never seen their planet from space."

"Anything else?"

"Commander Troi told me they couldn't be trusted."

"Interesting. She sensed this from them?"

"Yes."

"Why are you sitting with your eyes closed?"

He peered through his lashes. At the glimpse of a K'korll standing behind her chair, he shut his eyes again. "Concentrating is easier."

"What did you do when she told you they couldn't be trusted?"

"The mission was more important--we had to push forward. We had to try."

"And then?"

"The next day, I toured the--I gather it was some sort of museum, but that wasn't exactly it. A large building where they kept artifacts, but there were areas I didn't see. They didn't want me to see them."

"Why do you say that?"

"The D'ria guided me around areas she would not show me and which she did not explain. I asked about something I saw in a corner of the courtyard she led me into. I was directed to the other side instead. The D'ria pointed out a mosaic and very pointedly instructed me to stay there while she went to find a text that would help me understand its meaning. The mosaic wasn't so interesting--someone had taken pains to erect a wall just for the work, but I didn't understand why. It was all in shades of brown and didn't seem to depict anything in particular. Abstract, I suppose. When she didn't come back, I looked around. I was walking toward a statue when--"

In the shadow of the statue, a pile of brown tiles, an open container of what appeared to be glue. Bolts and a large tool with a motor. He went back to the mosaic, touched it, and a tile fell from the still-damp glue to the pavement, shattering.

A concussion like the collapse of a hull in space --the ground shaking--the sudden inability to breath for the dust--weight pushing him flat, substance giving when he moved his arm --

Roaring. Blackness. Blankness. Pain. Swans.

"What are you remembering right now?"

He heard her voice through the roar of the surf. "I think--I think--" The surf rose. Waves pounded down, and in the darkness he heard the cries of gulls.

"Captain? Open your eyes."

The surf took him. He lost the ground beneath his feet; the water spun him around and pulled him into its frigid embrace. The pounding seemed to vibrate the bones in his head.

He came out of it to find Cant shaking his shoulders and leaning over him, her eyes worried. She let go as he sat up--why was he on the floor? He got his feet under him and took the chair again. Cant hovered, wringing her hands, then retreated behind the desk.

"What just happened?" he asked.

"You lost consciousness. Captain. . . ." She dropped her gaze to the desk, mulling silently, lips pursed. "Captain, have you ever heard of a regression trance?"

"It's a Betazoid mind trick to get someone to re-experience something they've forgotten. Why? Is that what you did to me?"

"No." Cant caught her hair in her thumbs and swept it back from her face, then leaned forward again. "But what you just experienced reminded me of it, a great deal. Did Counselor Troi ever use a regression trance with you?"

"Years ago."

Cant stared at him, seemed to shake herself from musings, and forced a smile. "Let's get back to the Khevil, to your tour of a museum. You were in the courtyard walking toward a statue. What happened then?"

"What courtyard?"

"You were just telling me about being on Khevlin, that the D'ria left you in a courtyard, that there was a mosaic you didn't like and that you were approaching a statue."

"I don't think so. I certainly don't remember such an incident."

Cant stared again, cleared her throat, reached across the desk, and manipulated a few controls. Picard heard his own voice telling of the situation he did not remember, and his throat tightened.

"That's not possible."

"Captain, you told me this minutes ago."

He shook his head. "I would remember. That can't be right."

"You're saying that the computer is wrong," she half-asked.

"I didn't say that. I don't remember it, nor do I recall the incident itself."

"Then I'm afraid your counselor's assessment and your first officer's observations have merit--it's too coincidental that this behavior occurs. The inability to speak of key incidents, unconsciousness, the convenient forgetting of the incident in question when you wake up--these things are not unheard-of symptoms of great emotional and mental stress, but the fact that they occur in this order and that you pass out only when confronted. . . . I'm sorry, but I have to concur that your being relieved from duty was the best thing to do."

"But the mission--"

"Do you believe that an important mission is best served by assigning an officer who displays these symptoms?"

"No."

"Yet you believe that you should have been left in charge."

"Yes, I should have. Because of my rapport with the Asili."

"Do you not see the contradiction in your assertions?"

"It doesn't matter. Life in space is such that Starfleet makes allowances based on circumstance. This should have been one."

Another pause, as Cant's brow furrowed briefly. "So if you didn't visit a museum, where did you go when you beamed down to Khevlin?"

"I spoke to the D'ria. She introduced me to several other officials, and we discussed the possibility of Starfleet bringing more ships to the area if the Alliance attempted to re-take the sector. We talked about the two Khevil colonies nearby, and the other species in the region."

"Where were you when the Asili attacked?"

"I had gone for a walk. A building toppled on me."

"Where were your security officers?"

"I--I don't recall."

"I find that rather unusual. Don't most away teams adhere to protocols that are intended to prevent losing contact that way?"

"Obviously the officers weren't following protocol. . . ."

############

Deanna took a moment to compose herself before entering the room. Admiral Nechayev stood up and extended a hand, smiling. "It's good to see you, Commander. I hoped to see the captain--your second officer tells me he's been detained, however."

"Yes," Deanna said, shaking hands and taking note of the tea and hors d'oeuvres on the table. This was the smallest briefing room, quite intimate with a crescent-shaped table and four chairs facing a viewport that ran the length of the room. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting. Have you spoken to Admiral Farok?"

At once, the admiral's smile dwindled. "Why would I have?"

They sat down, Deanna turning her chair to face the view as Nechayev had done. A network of girders had been erected around the saucer to make EVA work easier, and one of the beams took up a third of the window.

"You knew we had gone to Khevlin, and you've probably heard that mission was aborted because of the Asili. Admiral Farok deemed it necessary to investigate. The captain was severely injured, but refuses to acknowledge the necessity of removing him from active duty."

Nechayev felt a pang of sympathy even as her face hardened into the more familiar and formal admiral's demeanor. "Was it necessary?"

"Amnesia, aphasia, uncharacteristic and inappropriate emotional reactions, and brief lapses into unconsciousness were the symptoms --I believe that there was the additional complication of telepathic interference, and that he was used as an unwitting spy. I pursued verification of this prior to relieving him."

"There is sufficient evidence to determine exactly what happened?"

"Sensor logs, medical records, and eyewitness accounts. Our security chief had a tricorder with him on Khevlin and throughout the away team's journey to K'korll then to the Asili. Although he did not use it on K'korll. That may have been indicative of the K'korll's ability to control species with no telepathic ability, even those resistant to telepathic influence." Deanna watched a shuttle pod drift by. "Farok can investigate as much as he wants. I'm satisfied that what I did was correct, and moreover it was exactly what Captain Picard would have wanted me to do."

"I imagine you're most concerned about the captain himself."

"I am concerned that Starfleet will attempt to re-open negotiations with the Asili, in spite of what we've discovered about them. I'm concerned that they will overlook the Khevil's complicity in the attack and subsequent removal of the away team."

"These are dire insinuations you are making," Nechayev murmured.

"Precedents exist. The Dominion War gave us all a taste of what Starfleet considers necessary, when there's an enemy who outnumbers and outguns us."

The admiral's good humor had been dwindling, but now it vanished completely. Seven years later, people were still deconstructing the war, and she'd probably been one of the most vilified of the admirals in charge at the time. The mention of mistakes committed during the war irritated her.

The lights were down half, Deanna realized, and a spotlight outside made up the difference. The bluish tint on Nechayev's face was the confirming clue. This was deck nine forward; there were probably suited engineers just aft of this room on the hull, examining plating for excessive damage that would be potential future failures if left as they were.

"The Alliance isn't the Dominion," Deanna continued, watching the admiral's sharp features. "We have a technological advantage so far, but we can't allow that to make us complacent. Starfleet hasn't faced anything like the Randra Alliance before."

"What would you have us do, then?"

"Improve protocols regarding telepathic incursions. I have a hunch--a series of hunches, actually--that the Alliance has more spear carriers than ships, that they don't have resources to produce large numbers of high-warp, well-armed vessels, that they rely on being able to outnumber their foes. That they attempt subtler forms of control before waging war. That this has all been a test."

Nechayev turned from direct eye contact at Deanna's final assessment. "You base this on the nature of the attacks, and upon. . . ?"

"They returned the away team. They saved the captain's life--his injuries would have killed him. They did no real damage on Khevlin. The three Khevil who died in the collapse of the building that injured the captain were likely someone's opponents, and expendable. Because it's terribly convenient that the D'ria led the captain into the building, yet chanced to hurry off just in time to avoid being crushed. Mr. deLio found him in the rubble--do you know how the Khevil build, Admiral?"

"No, but I assume you'll tell me."

"They rarely build tall buildings because the materials they have are not suitable. The building into which they led the captain was the tallest one in the city, a two-story. deLio's tricorder readings, when examined after the away team's return, revealed interesting facts about the building that was destroyed. Such as, the most reinforced portion of the structure was constructed of a different material than the rest of it, and the captain happened to be standing in front of it when the walls came down. The D'ria commented on how fortunate the captain was, to have been standing near the mosaic. When McGinnis assessed the extent of his injuries, the D'ria became anxious. Which could be a reflection of her concern that a visiting dignitary had been injured in her care, but I suspect otherwise. She delivered him to the K'korll shortly after."

"It isn't unbelievable that the Khevil had other motives," the admiral said, picking up a canape by a corner. "You were sent there to explore the possibilities."

"Yes. But it seems strange that it was the captain, not the ship, that they were after."

"You suggest a plan to kidnap the captain, specifically?" The canape hung from Nechayev's fingers until she recovered from surprise. She popped it in her mouth and chewed, thinking. As she swallowed she gestured impatiently with her fingers. "I hardly think the Randra Alliance would know or care about any single Federation citizen."

"But it's still curious how everything seems to point to a conspiracy. When deLio, spurred by fears for their welfare and Federation security, appropriated a shuttle and left K'korll, the Asili boarded their ship. Except the Asili hate the K'korll passionately because they fear telepaths, which makes that action suspect. If you harbor that much antipathy toward a species, and you are as simple as the Asili appear to be, upon sighting a K'korll vessel you would fire first and take trophies later. Plus, there's a lot of space out there--what are the odds that an Asili vessel would stray close to K'korll space if they could be elsewhere? And if they did, it seems too much of a coincidence that they happen upon a small shuttle."

"Farok and Jellico have primary responsibility for the sector along this section of the Randra borders." The admiral selected a wafer piled with bits of vegetable chunks next. "Both of them know more about these species than I."

"Farok's pre-mission briefing did not mention K'korll, or much about the Asili. Certainly nothing about cannibalism."

Nechayev froze, her teeth sunk into the hors d'oeuvre, but only hesitated a moment. After eating the rest of the morsel, she shook her head. "The Asili, the Khevlin, or the K'korll?"

"The Asili. Cannibals would make very poor citizens, but very good soldiers. I have been wondering if they aren't like the Jem'hadar, a species altered for a specific purpose. Their reproductive methods would function well in a region where technology is limited; with the combination of asexual and sexual reproduction, they can produce great numbers of drones and just enough hechiipa to control them."

"Commander," Nechayev said, a soft summons, and Deanna turned from the faint star field to meet concerned blue eyes. "I think that I will want a copy of whatever reports you have given Farok."

"Of course."

"How is Jean-Luc now?"

"Well enough to give a Vulcan reason to question. Not well enough to command."

"And you?"

"Functioning."

Again, the sympathy. The admiral got up and straightened her uniform. "I was on my way back to Earth, but I believe I'll linger here for the time being--Captain Maven will be here in a few days. She's bringing the Asili delegate from Deneva, along with Admiral Jellico."

Deanna nodded. "Then you know about that? So if I say that reports of missing people on Deneva disturb me, you will understand why?"

Nechayev hesitated, a hand on the back of her chair. "I hope the captain recovers soon. I'll go find Farok and trouble him for those reports, plus an update of this investigation he's launched. Perhaps you should rest, Commander, you don't appear to feel well."

"Just a little mid-pregnancy nausea." Actually, the smell of the Denobulan canapes among the hors d'oeuvres seemed to be countering the herbal remedy. She rose to face the admiral. "It was good to see you again, Admiral."

"Likewise. I'll see you again soon, I'm sure." Nechayev smiled again but lost it before the doors closed.

Deanna got rid of the food and headed for the bridge. As she left the lift, Carlisle turned from ops, where he'd been leaning over Mendez' shoulder, and gave her a look that kept her moving rather than pausing to ask for an update. He followed her into the ready room.

"Farok's put three people on the investigation. They're all on board. I just spoke to one of them. Two are from the local JAG branch," he said as the doors closed.

Deanna headed for the desk. "I would expect it. Admiral Nechayev will be speaking to Farok herself shortly. In the meantime, it's not quite over between us and the Asili."

"What do you mean?" Carlisle exclaimed, almost falling into a chair.

"Captain Maven is on her way here. She's escorting an Asili delegation that showed up at the Olympics. Admiral Jellico is with them. I'm curious about a number of related details, but--any updates on our own research? Do you have the list of missing vessels?"

"I had to ask the computer a few different ways. I think the answer to the question 'how many vessels other than the *Bangor* have disappeared near Asili space' is three."

Deanna raised an eyebrow at him.

"I had to ask first which ships had patrolled in the area within the specified time span, then where those vessels are patrolling as of today. Three of them are listed as 'on hiatus, location unspecified.' One Intrepid, one Excalibur, and one Drieda class."

"Drieda is a newer model. There's only one of them in service, two more scheduled for commissioning before the end of the year."

"Yes." Carlisle wasn't frowning, but his eternal boyishness seemed to be on a leave of absence. "The only vessel listed as actually missing is the *Bangor*.* I did some research into what makes that one any different from the others. Nothing conclusive because the mission logs are beyond my security clearance, but the *Bangor*'s purpose for being in the area was innocuous, the restocking of several science stations, including Penaias."

"Which seems to hint that the other three unaccounted-for vessels had classified missions. Were you able to pinpoint when they disappeared?"

"With a little roundabout questioning, I could tell that none of them passed through the area within a month of the others. The Intrepid class has been missing for almost a year, if we consider the time spent 'on hiatus' as synonymous with 'missing.' The Excalibur class, for eight months. The Drieda class for a little more than four."

Her fingers tapping out a rhythm on the arm of her chair, Deanna wondered what the captain hadn't told her--if he'd known more about the situation than he could reveal, and so insisted upon being the only officer involved in the talks at Khevlin. The 'several' science stations, actually four of them, were purportedly to observe new-forming stars in a nearby nebula, but a couple of questions to the computer and Geordi had led her to wonder why the stations were closer to the Randra borders than they were to the nebula. All this plus Jellico being assigned to an Asili delegation in Federation space made Farok's caution in instigating an inquiry seem only logical.

She had felt for some time that this was a puzzle, that the pieces were right in front of them but they lacked key connecting pieces; now she wondered if the puzzle weren't also multi-dimensional, that they needed to look for connections to other layers of it as well. The more clues, the more directions they were led, the more telling gaps in the information available, the less she liked the apparent answers. Nechayev may have known more than she revealed, may be on the starbase for that reason, but Deanna suspected not. Details hadn't filtered up to the fleet admiral yet. In a way, that was disturbing in and of itself.

She realized how long she'd been silent when Carlisle cleared his throat quietly. "Thank you, Commander. You're dismissed." Her diffidence made him blink and stiffen. He left the ready room at a good clip. She took a moment to meditate, then opened her eyes and turned on the monitor. "Computer, display news article, headline 'Denevan Kidnapings Still Baffling Authorities.'"

###############

The briefing room was the same one in which Picard had held many staff meetings, but his senior officers were absent save one. He sat stiffly near the middle of the table, too aware of Troi sitting to his left; every so often he caught a whiff of her perfume. The others had all seated themselves along the other side of the table, backs to the stars, with padds in hand and no beverages. Farok finished his pedantic introductions and paused, focusing his attention entirely on Picard.

"I have reviewed the pertinent logs and the reports from Commander Getty and Lieutenant-Commander Rel, who interviewed your senior staff yesterday afternoon. Captain Malcolm, who is in charge of the JAG office here on the starbase, has also reviewed them and spoken to Getty and Rel about their reports. And Counselor Cant has also logged her recommendations concerning your fitness."

Farok paused, glanced about. His gaze lingered on Troi a few seconds longer than anyone else. At Farok's left, Captain Malcolm sat with a padd held firmly in both hands, elbows on the table; at Farok's right, Admiral Nechayev, with her usual solemnity and hands in her lap, observing.

"From this investigation, we can only conclude that Commander Troi's decisions must be supported, and that removing you from command was necessary for the sake of the mission. It was in your best interests as well."

At first, it didn't quite register. Picard stared at the admiral, waiting for more. For the 'but,' for the acknowledgment of what he was certain of, that the circumstances of the mission should make it obvious that an exception should be made. But both admirals watched him, carefully keeping straight faces. Troi dropped her gaze to the table, brow furrowed; Picard caught the slight movement out of the corner of his eye.

"Captain?"

He turned to the counselor, Cant, seated at the end of the table. Her inclusion in this little group seemed strange--admirals he understood, the JAG officer, Troi his accuser--but Cant? The Betazoid leaned slightly his direction.

"Captain, you won't be returned to duty," she said gently. "The admiral is saying you won't return to the mission."

He was out of the chair before he recognized he was in motion, realized his reaction only when the pain of slamming his palm on the table shot up his arm, jarring his elbow and shoulder. "No. The Asili--"

"Captain!" Nechayev shouted, but he went on, ignoring her.

"--want out! Bringing them into the Federation would deplete the Alliance's fighting force severely, possibly motivate them to seek diplomatic--"

"Captain!" Troi came out of her chair. "Captain!"

"--contact with--"

"JEAN!"

It jarred him from the litany. He gaped at the commander, unable to comprehend what would possess her to interrupt a commanding officer.

"They told you exactly what you wanted to hear," she exclaimed. "They conditioned you not to question. They altered you just enough to make you a drone, just like the majority of the Asili."

"That's ludicrous!" he exploded, swinging an arm as if it would sweep away the K'korll standing at the end of the table.

"Why did they attack Penaias so ineffectively? To see if it would draw us from our search for you. Why did they return you to us? To see if we would accept orders from you. To put us to the test, see if we would react to an altered commanding officer." She tossed a padd on the table. "To see if we would react to things like you sending a message back to Alliance space, if we'd even detect it, if we'd recognize something suspicious in it. That message you sent was about nothing."

"I sent no message!"

"Didn't you? That's a log from the station's computer system, which flags unusual transmissions for the communications manager's review. She forwarded it to the station commander, who forwarded it to the admiral. The message was charged to your account. It was made from the commons area, where I found you after speaking to the admiral yesterday morning."

Picard had to lean on the table; his legs suddenly felt weak. "You're setting me up. This is mutiny!"

"No, Jean. This is the first officer doing her job." Troi remained in her chair, not even leaning close. "It's what you want me to do."

"It is *not* what you're supposed to do! This was a matter of Federation security, a window of opportunity, and your nonsense may have closed it forever!"

In the silence of the room, he heard the faint creak of Troi's chair when she rose from it. She gripped his trembling arm, put her other hand to his shoulder, and guided him back into the chair. She sat again and turned her chair toward him, leaning back and folding her hands in her lap.

"Do you remember what a regression trance is?"

"Yes," he said, surprised by her sudden change of topic.

"Would you mind if we tried one?"

He gaped, then shook it off. "You can't be serious!"

"It would help us understand your frame of mind." She paused, her composure perfect, her 'counselor's face' flawless. "It's helped you in the past."

"It's irrelevant and unnecessary now! My welfare is secondary to--"

"Tell me about the tenebrus," she murmured, bending close and looking in his eyes.

"Tenebrus." Her eyes were so dark, so wide, twin stars gleaming along the left edges of her irises.

"Tell me about your penultimate, and the stars in the sky."

That didn't make sense. But he couldn't seem to say that; he was caught, as if in stasis. Everyone had to be phaser-stunned back at the Academy as part of training. This was like that, unable to move as he woke up slowly and regained control.

"Tell me about ponds, circus elephants, and flowers."

He could move his tongue then. His mouth. He could blink. "Counselor Troi," he said, because that was what he should say just then.

"Do you remember the courtyard, the mosaic, and the D'ria?"

"Yes." He was there, standing in front of it. The D'ria was making excuses to hurry off, retreating into a nearby door.

"Do you remember what was unusual about the mosaic?"

"It was new. Just put in. The D'ria said it was very old, but the adhesive was still damp. A piece came off in my hand. I was alarmed --I reached for my communicator to call for beamout and the ceiling fell in. The sound -- like an avalanche, and the mosaic began to topple, and I saw it wasn't even fastened to the floor, so I dove under it because the sides had broken about a meter up and I hoped there would be airspace. My communicator--it's gone. I can't find it. The dust is so thick, the pieces of tile everywhere, how am I going to find it, I have to get back -- "

"Captain, the flowers."

He blinked. Troi sat next to him, her eyes fastened on his. They sat on the couch in her office. "Counselor?"

"Tell me about the K'korll."

"Who?"

She frowned. "All right. Tell me about the Asili."

"I--can't."

"Why can't you tell me?"

"I don't remember."

"What is the first thing you recall after you couldn't find your communicator?"

He clawed at the rubble, the bits of tile jabbing him in the back, and coughed. "Dark."

"Who did you see next?"

His throat hurt. Inhaling the filth, and trying to talk anyway. "deLio. The lieutenant is with him, the D'ria--I can't see very well. Hurts."

"Who was the next new person you saw?"

"There's some Khevil--doctors, I think. My communicator's gone. I don't understand them."

"And next?" Her eyes, her eyes, worried face, behind her--he blinked away blurriness, or tried to, and the room came into focus. A gray, bare briefing room, with other people, but when he tried to look at them he found his head wouldn't turn. Behind the counselor, an alien --

"Him."

"What is he?"

"Dark. Him."

The alien came closer and reached for the back of the counselor's head. Terrified, angry, he lunged to defend her.

###############

Deanna caught his wrists. "No! It's all right, don't," she shouted, and the others paused in their move to help her. "Captain! The flowers!"

At once, Jean-Luc stopped trying to get past her. She'd sensed the real focus of his anxiety wasn't her, guessed that the lunge had been aimed beyond her, and suspected hallucination. He settled back in the chair and returned to the calmness of the trance, his dilated eyes finding hers again. In this state his movements lacked force and his only conscious memories of this would be of their conversation--it was the whole point of a regression trance. The patient was supposed to remember what had been forgotten. It resembled hypnosis, when used on a human. She wished she'd come up with better control words when she'd set the initial trance--yammering about flowers in front of admirals was bothersome.

"What's the next thing you remember after you saw the Khevil doctors?"

Frown lines appeared across Jean-Luc's forehead. Unnaturally, his eyes remained focused on hers as he sought the answer to the question. "The ship."

"Which one?"

"We were being boarded. deLio and the lieutenant and I were taken aboard the other ship. They destroyed ours."

That matched deLio's description of how they had been found by the Asili. Perhaps if she didn't mention 'them' by name, this might go somewhere. "Did they welcome you? Did you talk to their leader?"

"She said--she said--the eyes," he gasped, eyes losing focus. He'd moved back into memory. "The eyes."

"Describe the eyes." Deanna noticed Cant staring at the back of the captain's head and shifted her attention. Once her eyes left Jean-Luc's face, his expression blanked as if he'd been turned off. "What are you doing, Lieutenant?"

"Observing." Cant's intense look said more than she intended. "But not intrusively."

Deanna turned back to Jean-Luc. "What about the eyes?"

The captain blinked at her and his face pulled into concerned, confused lines. "Resistance. . . ."

"Captain?"

"Futile," he whispered.

"Flowers." He flinched at the reset word. "Do you remember the reception on the *Enterprise*?"

"The crew's changed. It's all different. All --different--" His eyes snapped back into focus. Mouth slack, he began an internal struggle that ended abruptly with the destruction of the trance state, which she sensed the instant it happened. He looked around, consternation written in his brows, and glared at her.

"I think that's a good idea," she said, smiling. "It would be a wise thing to do."

From around the table, she sensed a wave of shock. Jean-Luc recovered more quickly than the others. "I'm glad you agree."

"Then the counselor will see you in an hour."

He opened his mouth to protest and caught himself. "Yes."

"I'm glad you volunteered. Willingness to cooperate will help speed your recovery. So you'll be in Mr. Davidson's office at eleven hundred?"

"Right. If you'll excuse me. . . ."

Farok chimed in, almost jovial for a Vulcan. "Thank you for coming, Captain."

Jean-Luc nodded, put on more confidence than he felt, tugged his uniform, and left the room. The other four officers were silent; Deanna leaned forward and put a hand to her back as she tapped her communicator.

"Troi to bridge. Track the captain. Let me know if he leaves the ship."

"Aye, sir," came deLio's response. "I have him on sensors now."

"Good. Troi out. Admiral Farok, does that satisfy your remaining doubts as to the captain's state of mind?"

"He does seem not quite himself. I remember him being much more rational than he displayed just now, and certainly, he shows symptoms of mental dysfunction when under pressure." Farok performed none of the typical human gestures--no lip-rubbing, no movement of the head, no sweep of the fingers or shrugging or changes of posture--and Deanna found herself missing such obvious body language. "I find it notable that even now, this regression state can be triggered--I would have thought, given your change in rank and position, that you would nullify it."

"I did. The human brain retains far more information than even its owner is conscious of--I suspect that whatever was done to him triggered not only a regression in his memory but a regression to an earlier mental state. His behavior didn't contradict that theory. When I set up the original regression trance, it was during his recovery from the Borg and at his request--he wanted to be positive there were no traces of 'programming' lurking in his mind. Shocking to be asked for such a routine in the middle of a session with a human patient. He'd done his own research and run across a description of the procedure."

"The worst kind of patient," Cant muttered, drawing looks from the admiral.

"His reaction to his senior officers questioning his fitness was particularly telling," Deanna said. "Because he is so experienced, because he trusts his officers, because he of all people is keenly aware of how easily control can be stripped from you, if he had not been influenced by aliens he would have been questioning himself, second-guessing and analyzing. He would have been in the counselor's office if only to prove that he *wasn't* under external control."

"Is there a chance he will recover from this?" Nechayev asked, glancing from Cant to Deanna and back.

"There is always a chance. I've seen him come back from bad situations before," Deanna said.

"But how soon?" Farok asked.

"It's impossible to tell. It could take a week, it could take years."

"This was done by a type of telepath unknown to us," Cant said. "We don't even have a way of determining exactly what was done to him."

Deanna nodded. "Or what was intentionally done versus what was accidentally done. I don't think the K'korll meant to do anything but heal. If they were powerful enough to save his life--which they did, given the infections and the massive injuries the captain sustained--they could have done more than this to him. There's a second set of telepaths involved. I sensed them. They're different from the K'korll."

"I thought you said you hadn't confronted the K'korll, that it was your away team who did so," Nechayev said. "Or did it have something to do with this. . . bond that Counselor Cant describes in her report?"

"Yes," Deanna said, shifting in her chair rather than glaring at Cant. "The bond."

"Over such a distance? That's incredible," Cant said. The other three officers eyed her, and she looked to Deanna.

"You mean, it's incredible that a half-blooded empath could show any such ability," Deanna said coolly.

Cant sat up straighter. "I meant it's incredible that you could have such a strong bond with a human."

Something occurred to Deanna that she'd almost missed. "You tried to get into his head while you were questioning him, didn't you? After I specifically told you not to try."

Cant gaped. "Not really."

"Indeed." Deanna's chair creaked softly when she resettled her weight in the attempt to ease spasms in her back. She'd been sitting too long.

"He mentioned using the Borg against the K'korll," Farok said unexpectedly. "Interesting that he seemed to do the same just now."

"He knows that only the most consuming and painful experience he could provide stood a chance at preventing a telepathic trespass. I'm not surprised that he would resort to the Borg whenever he suspects intrusion." Sensing a flicker of recognition from her, Deanna glanced at Cant. "I suppose he did the same with you?"

The counselor wavered between disclosure and pride, finally shaking her head. "He resisted, answered questions vaguely or with another question. But I didn't pry into his thoughts."

"But he would have suspected you of doing so, and you would have sensed the pain, at the very least."

"I don't know what he felt." Cant cleared her throat, already recognizing her lie would be transparent. "That is, I was trying not to sense anything, and what I detected did not tell me much."

"I knew he was resilient," Nechayev said, "but this seems so extreme. If not for the events on record and his reaction to the outcome of the investigation, I'm not sure I would have believed he was mentally unstable. Prior to the admiral's announcement, he seemed fine."

"I know. I only wish that he was."

"You're confident that he should remain aboard your ship?" Farok asked. "If there is a risk of his following some conditioned impulse to cause damage or take a shuttle, perhaps he should be removed to a secure installation until he recovers."

"But if we remove him from the *Enterprise* he may not show any more symptoms." Cant swivelled her chair to face the admirals. "It may be that location is part of whatever triggers were set to activate the various commands."

"Are you suggesting we take advantage of the captain's condition?" Nechayev's question was laced with disapproval.

"It may be necessary to let the conditioning run its course--restoring normalcy may prove difficult otherwise," Deanna said.

"How would you be able to tell he's normal?" Captain Malcolm exclaimed.

"His reactions," Cant said. "Exposure to stimuli that caused aberrant behavior previously. I also think that he would improve more readily if he were close to his family."

"This 'regression trance'--how reliable are a patient's comments while under its influence?" Nechayev asked. She hadn't been there early enough to hear Cant explaining it to Farok and Malcolm. While the counselor described the trance as best she could in Standard, Deanna let her attention drift away to Jean-Luc. He was still deep in thought. She wondered if he would return to the counselor's office as he'd said.

Farok's voice brought her back. "Since there is the possibility of complete recovery, the captain will retain rank and posting pending further review of the situation. If within a reasonable amount of time he has not recovered, it will be necessary to give *Enterprise* to a new captain." He glanced at Nechayev before continuing, seeking agreement, which she gave with a nod. "I shall expect your medical personnel to forward a report bi-weekly, Commander."

"Yes, sir."

The admiral departed with Nechayev, Captain Malcolm trailing along after them. Cant lingered, showing no sign of rising. Deanna decided she didn't care. She had reached the door when Cant spoke.

"Hajira is very unusual."

Deanna turned back half a step at a time. The old back injury must be to blame--the nerve had to be acting up. This was far and above the usual lower back ache. If only her hybrid nervous system would cooperate with the regeneration process.

Cant didn't react to her glare. "I've only seen one other instance of it. Not with a human. I'd hardly expect that sort of bond with a human."

"There is nothing about Captain Picard that conforms with the expectations of strangers."

"I'd say the same about you," Cant replied evenly. "You were quick to take advantage of his momentary disorientation. Almost too quick."

Deanna raised an eyebrow. "It was an opportunity to test my theory that he'd been playing along in situations when memory lapses occurred. And I'm certain Davidson will appreciate that I gave him a little push."

"I'm sure." Cant left her chair and came around the table. This was the first time Deanna had seen her in uniform. She'd also tied back her hair. "He isn't an easy patient. I would wager, however, that of the two of you, you're worse."

"As much as I would like to indulge your curiosity with further conversation," Deanna said, drawing out the sentiment as long and sourly as she could, "I must visit sickbay and return to my work. Good day, Counselor."

She half-expected Cant to follow her, but the counselor got in the first lift Deanna passed. Putting the woman out of her thoughts, she backtracked and waited for the next turbolift while contemplating how best to accommodate a compromised captain without wounding his ego or enraging him. The brig was definitely unacceptable. Confining him to quarters would mean a worn-out carpet and much counselor abuse.

The idea came as she stepped out of the lift and headed for sickbay. Of course. How obvious it was.

"I was about to contact you," Mengis announced when she entered. He hesitated, probably reacting to the smile on her face, but gestured her to the nearest biobed without a word.

"I need something for back pain. I think it's that old injury again."

"The remanidol worked well for you last time? No side effects?"

"None. Gregory, could you give me a tranquilizer in powdered form?"

He scowled in consternation. "It's more effective if it's--"

"I know. But it's not for me. I need a way to get someone on a holodeck in such a way that he doesn't realize he's on a holodeck when he wakes up."

"That doesn't sound ethical."

"Let me explain. . . ."

###############

deLio found the first officer in her office, staring at the desk--her head came up as he entered, but there was nothing on the desk to have occupied her so completely.

"Mr. LaForge enlisted my help in the programming of the holodeck. I have questions before I participate in this."

Troi gestured at the chair facing her from over the desk and waited while he sat down. "A holodeck has been used in numerous psychiatric cases with good results. It's less dangerous than confining him anywhere else on the ship because of the safeties, and if he doesn't realize it's a holodeck he won't be inclined to find a way to escape."

"You believe it will be necessary to confine him?"

Her mouth pulled thin, her brow wrinkled, the distant thoughtfulness glazing her eyes. "Unfortunately. He is not well. You knew this. Also, there is the possibility that he may continue to be an instrument in the hands of the Alliance--undoing what's been done to him will take a long time."

"If it is reversible."

She stood as if fearing her legs would fold, turned half-away, a hand on the back of her chair. Shoulders rolled forward to bear the weight of things that were becoming too heavy. Still, she spoke calmly--but not to address his last statement.

"I requested to keep him aboard the ship for several reasons. But I can't allow him the freedom of the ship--that message he sent may be the first of many actions he has been brainwashed to perform. It's his safety I'm worried the most about, but it's in everyone's best interest to confine him."

"I should tell you that I may not be able to continue in this posting."

She didn't move, but still, deLio's impression was that this had added weight to her burdens. He could not see her face very well from this angle; her hair had been let down from the more severe style she had adopted some months ago. She cleared her throat softly.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Commander."

"As am I. Leaving would not be my preference. However, if arrangements I set in motion some time ago will conclude as I believe they might, it will be necessary for me to depart if circumstances continue as they are."

She came around the end of the desk and leaned against it, arms crossed over her abdomen. Weariness and pain traced lines around her eyes and mouth. "I don't understand. What arrangements?"

"Previously, no L'norim officer has been allowed family while in Starfleet--the only officers you have met of our species have been young, unmated and uncommitted. Listing the reasons for this would be time-consuming and irrelevant; the dosts made the decision collectively after much deliberation prior to L'noriss being admitted to the Federation. I set an appeal in motion three Standard years ago. The dosts have deliberated and agreed a year ago to allow an exception, a test, and pursuant to this I have been seeking candidates to participate with me in this venture. Two have accepted and a third is pending but likely. The parameters of the test are firm, however, and were contingent upon the captain's sponsorship of it. If he is not able to do this, I will not be able to remain aboard--I cannot undo what has been done. If zeRia accepts the offer that deVin, seKahl and I made, it will be expected that we approach the captain as if he were our elder. If he is incapable we must return to L'noriss and approach the elder of de'dost to finish the contract."

"You would not accept the. . . sponsorship of a different commanding officer?"

"If you were to be promoted, the contract would not be viable. Gender lines are not crossed. In that way we are like the Asili, though we have more strict definitions. We have four genders, but the only one capable of bearing young is the *ghif*--the *ghifirim* do not take positions of authority. The dosts will not acknowledge your command in a L'norim framework."

"I probably won't be given the *Enterprise* even if I did receive a promotion," she said.

"I have resided aboard the *Enterprise* under Captain Picard long enough to establish residency and claim him an elder. There is no time--I would have to start over with another captain, and zeRia will answer any time now. She will not wait." deLio stood, which put him well within arm's reach of the commander. She had to look up to meet his eyes, then followed him down as he knelt, blinking in surprise.

"deLio--"

"The ritual is one of respect." He rested all his weight on his knees, still facing her though that was not part of the ritual. "The weapons of a predator are key to his survival. Exposing them to another is indicative of great trust."

She flinched when his fangs flicked out. His breath hissing softly from the back of his throat, he closed his eyes, felt the hinges of his jaw click apart, felt the tension in his cheek sacs as they inflated. The placement of her leg firmly set in his memory, he leaned, turning his head, until he knew her right thigh, the foremost one since she'd crossed her legs at the ankles while standing against the desk, was within the gap between his upper and lower jaw. This was the greatest weapon of his gender, the sehiligh--the kill-makers, the third ones to attack the prey after it had been harried to exhaustion by the rehoh and then weakened by the mareh's blood-letting. Once a sehiligh had fastened itself on the throat of the wounded prey, no matter how large and desperate the creature was, no matter how it tried to escape, the sturdy peg teeth of the lower jaw and the sharper uppers would hold while the fangs delivered poison to paralyze. Dislocation of the jaw meant less opportunity for a thrashing victim to snap through bone. Tough tendons would hold fast once the killing bite had been applied.

The danger of this ritual was twofold--anything less than rigid control and deLio's jaw could easily snap shut as it was designed to do and the tendons would not release until the poisonous payload had been delivered and all the air in his sacs expelled. But unless he completed the kill, his eyes, which automatically closed to protect them once his jaw unhinged, would not open--anything could be put in his mouth to trigger the closure of his jaw and he was effectively disabled for the moments it took to expel the poison and disengage.

He leaned back and released his jaw. It snapped shut, jarring his lower mandible against the upper, his fangs automatically folding away. A few shifts of his jawbone settled it back into place. His eyes opened only then.

Troi leaned back, gripping the edge of the desk in her hands, pale and wide-eyed.

"It is not my intent to frighten you," he exclaimed, rising to his full height. "But I wanted you to understand--it is not my personal opinion of you that you are not a fit commanding officer. It is the tradition of L'norim. The other three will follow those traditions, because without the dost system none of us would be able to start a family. Our continued existence depends upon the dost."

"I understand, deLio, I was only wishing you'd given me a bit more warning." She exhaled, putting a hand to her head. "I knew about the fangs but the jaw--the--"

"I have caused offense."

"No, deLio, it's all right." Her breathing slowed, but he noted that she swallowed nervously. "It's all right. I cannot guarantee that the captain will return to duty, but I can tell you that I'll do everything I can to make it possible. And unfortunately I can't give you a time table. Starfleet will provide one for us, no doubt, but for now he's been given time to recover."

"Then we will wait until the issue is forced to a conclusion."

"Unfortunately." She dropped her hand from forehead to chest, traced down the middle seam of her jacket, and let it rest over her unborn child.

"Until then, I ask your indulgence. I must protect the captain, if it is in my power, and by extension I must also protect you."

"But you are responsible for this already, as security chief."

"This is a family matter. This is beyond Starfleet regulations." He shook the remaining air from his sacs impatiently. "If there is anything that can be done to help the captain recover, I will do it. Even if this means disregarding orders or regulations. The dosts made the exception based upon my insistence that the captain was capable of understanding and fulfilling the duties of an elder--I must do as I would for my own elder, or risk appearing to have perpetrated falsehood. I must."

Deanna gaped at him. "What are you saying?"

"Dr. Mengis believes that the K'korll would be of use in the captain's rehabilitation, based on their role in his recovery from the injuries on Khevlin. I believe that I may have misjudged them, as your interpretation of their behavior is logical."

"If you're volunteering to go back into Alliance space, deLio, that's--I can't condone this," she exclaimed, shaking her head. "I can't let you do it! I wouldn't take the *Enterprise* back in there alone, and any smaller vessel would have even less of a chance of finding K'korll, let alone reaching it!"

"The captain has disregarded regulations in certain situations. You have done the same. You would take the risk yourself if not for more pressing obligations. Since you cannot, someone else should."

Deanna frowned, turning away as she crossed her arms tightly. "No one else should. We're going back along the border on patrol, along with two other vessels. Starfleet wants to keep an eye on the area. They don't want so much as a skirmish, and if you went hunting in a Starfleet vessel--"

"I could take the *Flying Fish*.* The Alliance's territory includes, apparently, many different species that are not all loyal to the Alliance of their own free will. I think I would be able to pass through without incident."

"And if the Asili won't let you?" She took her chair, leaning back until it creaked.

"They won't be interested in me. Small ships do not appeal to them. Without specific orders from their superiors, they won't consider me worth the energy."

"Unless they're very hungry."

"The *Flying Fish* has a top speed of warp seven. Though it can't maintain that speed very long, it would be enough to keep me out of their range."

She nodded. Rubbing her belly thoughtfully, she glanced at the chronometer on her desk. "Still. I cannot condone it, and if I find out that you're planning such an excursion, it would be my duty to stop you. You're one of my officers, I can't permit it."

"Yes, sir." deLio came to attention, already considering options. The junior officers who would likely be in the vicinity of the main shuttle bay wouldn't be a problem. He could order them away easily enough.

"I suggest you see to the arrangements Mr. LaForge is making--make sure all security considerations are taken into account. We don't want anyone getting on that holodeck once it's in operation, and there's a possibility the captain will figure out it's a holodeck and try to escape."

"Yes, sir." That would take most of the afternoon. Once off duty, he could make the necessary preparations, time messages to be sent in the event he did not return, and perform a security check of the shuttle bay systems. All routine, of course.

"I note also that you have denied the leave Mr. Carlisle gave you. You're to take leave when scheduled, Lieutenant-Commander deLio. In fact, I see that you have six weeks of leave accrued. I think you should take at least two of them." She leaned across the desk, meeting his eyes with unusual intensity. "If you leave the ship, make sure you come back promptly. There aren't many Federation worlds close at hand, I realize, but I believe you need the rest."

deLio tensed.

"To that end, if you do go, take the *Pauling*,* it should shorten the journey considerably. I doubt we'll have a use for it on patrol and it's quite a well-appointed vessel. It needs some shakedown time."

The *Pauling* was the newest shuttle class vessel aboard, based on the runabout design but with better weaponry and shielding. It also had a top speed of warp eight.

"I do not believe I should take leave at this time, sir. But if this is an order--"

"It's an order, Commander. You need time off, too. You're not sounding like the security chief I know."

"Then I shall obey. After I help Commander LaForge, of course."

"Of course. Dismissed."

He strode to the door but hesitated, holding it open to look over his shoulder. Deanna still leaned on her desk, still watched him intently, but her eyes seemed to glitter more than usual. The explanation, a single tear, left the corner of her eye and hesitated briefly on her cheek before she flicked it away with her fingers.

"I shall bring you a souvenir," he said.

"Remember what I said, deLio. Vacation time."

"Aye, sir."

deLio left the ready room. In the lift, he began a mental list of things he would need for the trip into Alliance space.

############

Laerta no longer smelled the overwhelming odor of many Asili in close quarters. The filth on the floor no longer elicited a gag response, the people crowded into a room half the size of the hotel room she'd had on Deneva no longer made her claustrophobic. The constant dim lighting bothered her less and less. Her stomach, initially loud and demanding, had settled into dull acceptance of the situation, its efforts to force her to find food becoming a continuous dull knot of pain.

"Pack behavior," Tierney murmured, her back to the wall and her legs bent to prop her up. In the muggy warmth she'd long since shed her uniform; her white tank top no longer white, her briefs in similar condition, she alternately gasped for air and rambled endlessly, composing field reports no one would ever hear. Through the trickling hours--no one had been able to keep track of days -- her voice had provided them with background noise.

Fred, who had been in this place longest, lay on his side along a wall and hardly opened his eyes any more. His uniform showed signs of his having been 'inspected' by Asili--long parallel tears, obviously inflicted by claws, had reduced his jacket to shreds.

In the center of the room, a Betazoid woman watched over what Laerta assumed to be her mate. The man had been bitten on the arm, the flesh torn open to the bone. The woman had changed the improvised bandages every so often, gradually sacrificing her own clothing to do it, and each time, whether intentionally or not, had only her tears to attempt washing it out. She now crouched over her husband nearly naked, rocking and crooning or chanting under her breath as if performing rituals or praying, ignoring everyone else. The man's wound had become infected and added yet another odor to the already-pungent atmosphere, but that was another smell Laerta hardly noticed any more.

"Similar to the Hosferans," Tierney muttered. "Taller. Carnivorous. . . . Less intelligent."

Laerta turned her head, rolling it against the wall she sat against, to look at Bisfa. He seemed to be resting peacefully, curled up on his side with his limbs folded against his body. She'd awakened from blunt-trauma-induced unconsciousness to find herself here with the little furry alien draped over her, bleeding copiously, and torn up her own dress to help him. He'd lost one eye and the gash down his head and neck wasn't pretty, but he still breathed and had even awakened a few times. Once while she had been tending him--his remaining eye had focused on her face and she thought he'd been aware of her and what she was doing, though he didn't speak or move.

"Smell bad," Tierney blurted, spitting. She began to cough, the effort bending her over and bringing up a minuscule amount of sputum. The deep rattle in her chest probably meant something, too.

"You should ask for medical help."

Laerta appeared to be the only one who heard it. She looked at Bisfa again; the single pale eye had opened, pupil dilated in the dimness, and his mouth moved as if snarling, but the subdermal translator still worked well enough for Laerta.

"They will give you help."

"Why?" Laerta croaked. The Betazoid woman glanced their way for the first time.

Bisfa closed his eye but kept talking. "You are part of a plan. They want live prisoners."

"What the hell for? We don't know anything!"

"You know why. You saw. They are hungry."

"So they want us alive--why not kill us and put us in cold storage? They wouldn't have to feed us then. Do they think they're going to breed us or something?" Laerta choked on dry laughter. "Ridiculous! There's no way that will be feasible. They'd be better off gardening."

The Chechik's eye opened again. "Explain."

"It takes years to raise one of us to this size, and you have to feed us all that time. It's a waste of resources--there are types of livestock that would be better, animals that grow to a decent size in less than a year. Why not get some animals? What about the home world, don't they have any resources there?"

"The Asili have no home world."

"So ask for animals from some other folks who have one!"

Bisfa stared at her as if she'd suggested the impossible. The Betazoid woman began to weep softly and peel the bandage from her husband's arm in increments.

"They have done so," Bisfa said at last. "The Asili are unskilled in the care of creatures who are unable to fend for themselves in this environment. If you ask, they will supply you with what you need."

"Like food? If they want us for food what are they feeding us? I don't understand this--why do they consider us a viable option for a breeding program?"

"It is a long story."

"Condense it. Or make it long--who cares? We're not going anywhere soon."

Tierney peered at them through swollen eyelids. "Poor animal husbandry. No diagnostic ability. Minimal deductive reasoning. They could not tell when animals fell sick, and could not treat them. They need livestock who can communicate their needs."

"Yes," Bisfa said. "That is part of it. They were given these ships. They are excellent warriors and they breed quickly. However, without food they are unable to multiply as quickly as the Sisnok would like, and feed upon each other if they must. The Sisnok were also driven from their home world. They have no resources to share, and they seek revenge from those who drove them into space. They are attempting to build an army with the Asili and a fleet of ships, either stolen or paid for with their ability to coerce others--a service many other Alliance species take advantage of when dealing with their own enemies. The Sisnok cannot influence all species, however, so they remain at a disadvantage until they have an adequate fleet of their own. As too many species in the Alliance are beyond their ability to coerce and will not give the Sisnok aid to further their cause, the Sisnok are looking beyond into the Federation for resources."

"They could have just asked us for help," Laerta exclaimed.

"That would not occur to them. They have asked others for help and received none. And your Federation is small and weak. It is easier to deceive and take without asking."

"Easier to blindly select people for a breeding program and not understand that it takes twenty years to breed a single one of us," Laerta exclaimed. "Brilliant. I guess they also think we can have litters of ten? Sorry, but it's one kid at a time, the gestation takes the better part of a year, and it takes a long time to grow one to my size. That's a lot of food and care to produce something that might feed one Asili for a couple of days." There were options, technology that would allow them to grow meat in nutrient tanks, or even replicator technology, but Laerta wasn't feeling charitable enough to mention it.

"Then it will fail. It will not be the first time." Bisfa sighed, curling up more tightly. "They will still wish to take your ships, and if there are edible organisms aboard, so much the better."

"Why are you here? You're not Asili or Sisnok." She guessed the Sisnok had to be the small pale aliens.

"The Chechik considered helping the Sisnok. I was one of a few individuals who was assigned to assess the possibility." Bisfa shifted as if uncomfortable. "The Sisnok were not serious in wanting us as allies. Like you, we do not breed quickly enough. I was useful to them, as a way of convincing other Alliance species that the rumors about Sisnok are not true. But they are true."

The ripping of cloth interrupted them. The last bit of the Betazoid woman's dress, previously a band about her chest and a sleeve, became a bandage. She rose to her full height and looked about wildly, then wandered the perimeter of the room, passing both the platter of bits of food and the water bowl as if they didn't exist. Laerta held up the edge of her ever-shortening skirt and tore a ragged piece from it. She held it up and the woman pounced. Their eyes met; Laerta could only see terror in the woman's eyes.

"We're getting out of here," Laerta said.

Where it came from, she had no idea. She had been convinced of their doom. But Fred finally moved, opening his eyes and pushing himself up on an elbow; Tierney still watched but had fallen silent. Bisfa, however, made an odd creaking, huffing noise Laerta finally recognized to be laughter.

"Go ahead and laugh. You're helping us."

At least it made him stop laughing.

 

@#@#@#@


	4. Sleight of Mind

Lady,i will touch you with my mind.  
Touch you and touch and touch  
until you give  
me suddenly a smile,shyly obscene  
(lady i will  
touch you with my mind.)Touch  
you,that is all,  
lightly and you utterly will become  
with infinite ease  
the poem which i do not write.

e.e. cummings

@@@@@@@@@@@@

Alone on the beach, he waited, not certain of what to expect. Someone would come, surely, otherwise why would he still be waiting there?

He tried to remember who would be there, but it wouldn't come to him. All the while water rushed up the sand and sighed in retreat, the waves hardly knee-height. He let the foam rush around his ankles. Once, when a wave receded, it left a white object near his toe; he bent to pick it up. His fingers found wet feathers. Flesh. A limb. He picked it up, turned it, and discovered the sea had given him a dead bird. A swan, with a black beak.

He dropped it. The next wave shifted it gently, lifted it, and dislodged the head from the matted mass of dirty white feathers. As the sea pulled it from him, the head drifted last at the end of a long neck, the beak agape and the one visible eye glassy and fixed. The bird floated off, and as it rode the surf, he realized that it was alive--the beak closed and opened, and one of the wings stirred enough to flop the poor creature on its back.

He ran after it, forging into the surf, reaching, but the bird had already passed out of easy reach. His feet left the bottom and he was swimming. The waves grew, until he found himself in a trough between them, a monstrous wall of water rising up before him, and there was the bird. She'd recovered and seemed to be paddling straight up the wave away from him.

He opened his mouth to call for help, but salt water poured into it. Lost in a confusion of foam and dark waters and the pull of riptide, he struggled to stay afloat. An eternity of kicking and thrashing ended with a pinch of his arm and a pull. He thought it must be the bird.

Was it pulling him up or down? He burst into the air at last --

Jean-Luc gasped, pulling away from the bird's grip, and stopped himself at the edge of the bed, the covers in disarray and one of his legs already free of them. The lights were on. This wasn't the temporary quarters he'd taken. How had he been moved back into his quarters? Suspicious, he glanced around, searching for clues, and found Deanna standing at the other side of the bed. She wore a uniform, which led him to realize his own state of undress--shorts and a nightshirt.

"Jean-Luc. How do you feel?"

"What am I doing here?"

"I had you brought here."

"While I was asleep," he said, half-accusing.

"You passed out. Do you remember that?"

He tried, but the scattered thoughts didn't fit together coherently. "We were talking."

"Yes. And when I asked you a sensitive question you lost consciousness. After talking with Mr. Davidson and Dr. Mengis, they suggested that perhaps I should give you more opportunity to heal more before spending time with you. I had you brought here. You should stay in familiar surroundings. I didn't want to just vanish without explanation, so I've been waiting for you to awaken."

"But--" He swung his legs around, but as his feet touched the floor he stopped himself. "But what about me?"

"The counselor will work with you." She rounded the end of the bed and sat down with him. She seemed to be studying his right shoulder; she couldn't look him in the eye, he realized when her gaze dropped then came up again to settle somewhere to his left.

"Don't go."

Her eyes finally met his. Startled by the pain in them, he took her hand without thinking about it. Her attention followed the touch, making him pay attention as well. Her fingers lay limp across his palm.

"I'm sorry," he said, not knowing exactly why he was apologizing but sensing somehow that he should. "I know that what's happened has been difficult for you."

"Do you?" The words left her lips so softly he would have believed he imagined them, if he hadn't seen the movement of her mouth.

"I don't want to lose you."

Her head tilted toward him, her chin going down as she appeared to be stiffening to avoid looking at him. "It doesn't mean I'm leaving you."

"It means the only people I'll see are the doctor and counselor. You might as well have put me in the brig."

She jumped to her feet, pulled her hand free, and crossed her arms tightly. Now he couldn't see her face at all for her hair and the way she half-turned away from him. Contemplating departure, he guessed. The slope of her shoulders and angle of her head said misery.

His reaction came naturally as breathing, but she tried to dodge away from him, forcing him to catch and hold her more tightly than he'd intended. Her back felt solid against his chest and her fingers tightened over his hands to tug and beg for freedom. When he heard the soft almost-whimper, he loosened his grip.

"I'm afraid," he whispered.

She had stepped free of his arms, and at the confession she spun about and tossed her hair back. A swallow rippled in her throat, then she asked in tear-clogged, clipped syllables, "Of what?"

He had to turn away. Her dark, tragic eyes threatened him with tiny reflections of white birds drifting out to sea. "I realize the only reason I'm still aboard is you. They'd have me in an institution--"

"What?" she blurted, incredulous.

"The counselor thinks I'm unfit for duty, I've been relieved, he'd have me off the ship if I didn't have you on my side." He almost glanced back at her when she made the choked sound, to see if it was a laugh or a cough, but kept his eyes on the stars. Her voice, when she spoke again moments later, rose and fell unpredictably, the words skating on perilous emotions.

"Why do you think they would take you off the ship?"

He thought he could make out a faint waterline. The longer he stared, the more detail he could make out. Waves were creeping up to the edge of the viewport.

"Jean," she chided.

He turned around. "Deanna."

"Please answer the question."

She hadn't asked one. She stood casually in front of the bed watching him. One hand rested on her belly, showing the bulge through the uniform.

"Cordelia's getting bigger," he blurted, just as the thought occurred. He'd wanted to name a daughter that way. Shakespeare, he was certain, and symbolic.

Deanna sighed, grimacing. "Her name is Amy. We agreed."

Not in his memory, but he nodded. "Amy. That's right." The array of items on the table caught his eye. He crossed the room in a few strides to pick up a small sphere. Fuzzy, fragrant. A peach. He bit into it absently while studying the cover of an old book, but as the sweet-tart juice filled his mouth and the soft flesh of it went to pulp and threads in his teeth, he remembered Deanna--velvet skin taut over her belly, the difference in the way she tasted when pregnant. The pressure of fingertips on his shoulders, on the back of his neck, on his hip. Her tongue, her lips.

"I brought these for you," she was saying from far away. It pulled him back to the peach, to her, now standing next to him and touching the book. "I thought they might remind you of what you'd forgotten."

He held the peach under her nose. Startled, she raised her gaze from the table to his face, contemplated while he held the fruit steady for long moments, then nipped daintily, humoring him. She followed the peach with her eyes as he took another bite of it, exposing the pit and shreds of dark red fibers clinging.

"It's from the arboretum," she commented faintly. "A few of the fruit trees are producing. Does it remind you of anything?"

She didn't flinch from the weight of his hand on her shoulder, didn't look away when he leaned close, even opened her mouth under his. Through his shirt he felt her hand against his stomach, fingers curled so her nails pressed against him, feeling sharp-edged through his shirt. She tilted her head, exposed her throat, rested against his shoulder while he kissed the softness beneath her jaw and nipped her earlobe. The light scent of perfume mingled with the taste of the peach.

Her palm, then her fingers, cupped the back of his head and caressed him, coming to rest at the base of his skull. He felt the distant beat of her heart against his chest, steady and reassuring as the arm that went around his waist. The peach thudded dully on the carpet; his hand found the curve of her lower back an easy starting point. The other hand, still on her shoulder, now hid beneath a blanket of her hair.

He remembered loving this way. Warm, but not smothered. Familiar and yet stunned by the wonder of the other, her complexities beyond him yet very welcome. He remembered her body, about his height but slighter build, narrower shoulders and rounded contours, exuding muskiness and pale artificial fragrances.

It lasted an eternity, it lasted minutes, hours, days, but it ended when she backed away, her heel sending the half-eaten peach under the table. "I need to go, Jean."

"Come back soon?" She might as well be removing his internal organs with her fingernails.

"You need to cooperate with the counselor."

"I need--" He saw it and stepped around her, reaching for her, but she sidled away. Frustrated, he stood with his back to the alien and its glittering black eyes, putting himself between it and her. "You don't understand."

"I understand how you feel. It's not--I don't want--" She paused, open-mouthed, sighing. "I won't abandon you but I can't stay with you right now. Do you understand why the admirals ruled as they did?"

"Forget about that. This isn't about that. I can talk to the counselor, I can handle all of that, but you're my--my wife, Deanna. I can't--you can't leave."

"I'll visit," she said, the words clipped to the point.

"Visit."

"I'll come see you as often as I can. I have a ship to run and a child. . . . Jean." She took his shoulders in her hands. "You know you need help?"

"Yes," he exclaimed, since she was forcing the issue. "The counselor."

"I want to know you're better--I need you to be yourself again."

The alien had moved behind her again. But she moved toward the door and it stayed still, so he followed her into the living area, where she hesitated, apparently expecting him to say something.

"I'll do my best."

She smiled. "I hope so. That's usually more than adequate. I'll come by later."

When she was gone, he licked the drying peach juice from his lips and tasted also the hint of her lipstick. The alien waited for him in the bedroom, watching as always, but saying nothing. He studied the table again, the book, the other items--a ceramic swan among them.

Closing his eyes, he waited for the surf. Silence. When he looked at the viewports, he saw only stars, blackness, and faint reflections of the room and his own face. He held up the swan; its reflection was also a swan, slightly elongated in the curve of the port but upright, wings folded neatly along its back, neck proudly curved.

When he placed it carefully in the center of the table and picked up the book, the alien had gone.

@@@@@@@@@@@@

Davidson's voice drifted around the corner. "I'm certain she'll be along any minute."

Deanna let the holodeck doors close behind her and tried to sense who he could be talking to. It'd taken a long walk through holo-corridors that looked like *Enterprise* corridors to regain her composure. The last thing she needed was another stress-filled encounter, but it looked like that would be exactly what she'd get. She steadied herself, checked the holodeck controls for the 'out of order' message Geordi had rigged, and strode around the corner.

Ben's relief at seeing her wasn't encouraging. "This is Commander Gries," he said, smiling. "Commander Troi."

Gries nodded stiffly. A hybrid of some sort, from the green tint in his brown hair and faint ridges across the brow. He was in uniform, with the departmental grace note of blue. "I understand you have filed a complaint. Counselor Cant is in my department. I'd like to discuss this matter in private?"

She went with them to her office, taking them for a short ride in a turbolift and wishing her morning could have started out less auspiciously. "Coffee?"

"Rihafna," Gries said, altering Deanna's perception--he was a hybrid, but without human blood. The only people she'd met who actually enjoyed the bitter root extract he'd requested were Kornikos, from a world in the Klingon Empire. They were rumored to be descended from an exiled tribe of Klingons, which had merged with the aboriginal population of Kornikosa. Since the treaty between the Empire and the Federation, some Kornikos had made their way into Federation space, often to study.

Deanna replicated beverages--Ben's blend of coffee, rihafna, and some of her herbal remedy to counter the bitter smells of the other two--and took her seat. "You're the starbase counselor."

"I am in charge of that department. I assigned Cant because she was available. I wish to understand your complaint."

Deanna smiled--he was almost Klingon in his brusque manner, yet there had to be more to him than this. Klingons were not typically good counselors. "You wish to know more about the nature of the offense?" she guessed.

"I have not worked often with telepaths. It is why I requested a Betazoid counselor--there have been telepathic patients who were not comfortable with me. I was given to understand Betazoid counselors adhere to a strict ethical code?"

"I understand that she only wanted to help." Deanna sipped quickly and wished she dared take the nose filter from her drawer--she kept forgetting to put one in every morning. One of many tiny details that seemed to be slipping past her since this nightmare began. "But she became careless in her zealous efforts to help Captain Picard. I don't take such behavior lightly, Commander."

"Please elaborate. I wish to know how you discovered this trespass."

"I know Cant was reading me, at least cursorily, and when I confronted her about invading the captain's thoughts she lied to me. She shouldn't have trespassed without his permission. I specifically warned her not to."

"She told me this morning that she did nothing unethical. She wishes you to withdraw the complaint. I believe she thinks you are jealous. She believes it has something to do with a bond?"

"She believes that? You are aware that telepathic species often develop bonds?"

Ben glanced at her but did not voice his surprise. They'd never talked openly about the bond, though she knew most of the senior officers had guessed one existed. Gries nodded, balancing his cup on the arm of his chair, his chocolate-brown eyes fixed on her with an intensity that reminded her of Worf.

"She explained bonds to me. It is of no consequence. Is there proof of her violation of ethics?"

"Cases involving such a breach of ethics are normally referred to the appropriate authorities on the homeworld of the accused telepath, as they are impossible for non-telepaths to investigate. It's easy enough for a Betazoid to tell that another is lying."

Gries drank the rest of his rihafna in one swallow and placed the cup on her desk. "I see. Lieutenant Cant did not inform me of this facet of such an investigation. I was aware of procedure, of course, but I had imagined there must be an actual fact-finding process, rather than reliance on subjective impressions."

"It's not subjective to Betazoids."

"Then the lieutenant will be brought before an investigative committee, questioned, and if they find she is telling the truth she will be exonerated."

"Yes. And before completing the investigation, it's likely that I will be interviewed in person by the same committee. If by that time my husband has recovered, they would wish to speak to him as well. They may wish to examine him either way."

Another stiff nod. Gries thought it over, his bristling eyebrows drawn together. "I believe that I understand the situation more clearly. Thank you for your time, Commander. I hope Captain Picard recovers swiftly." He was out of the chair and at the door faster than she would expect of a man of his bulk, and gracefully, too.

Ben watched him go. When the door closed again, he turned to Deanna and smiled tentatively. "That's it?"

"For now."

"Well." He glanced down at his cup. "How did the chat with the captain go?"

She let her eyes wander to a padd on her desk. "Well enough."

"But you didn't tell him."

"I did, but he wouldn't accept it."

"Do I have to remind you where he'd expect your focus to be? And it's more than that--you're fraying around the edges, Deanna. You can't keep up this way. I know what you mean to each other--"

"No," she snapped. At his startled look she caught herself. "No, you don't know that."

"You're pregnant and we're about to go back out there--you have a lot of stress already because of the mission. It's natural for you to want to be with him--"

"We'll talk later, Counselor."

He left her, giving her a glance that was part warning, part reassurance.

Focusing her attention on the departmental reports, she worked her way through the minutiae of operations, the number-dense engineering reports on repairs completed, with deviations from spec in red, and equipment requisitions, at the top of which were Dr. Mengis' requests for medical supplies. Ward requested replicator upgrades for the living quarters, as a newer model had become available. Geordi, of course, had a list longer than anyone's and most of his items were for the engines. Requisitions from the crew had funneled up to her through the quartermaster; she skimmed through the room changes and furniture being asked for and found nothing that set off alarms.

Leave requests were not difficult. deLio's was there, approved by Ward. One pending request remained for Lana'hai, who listed an annual cultural event as his reason for needing three weeks at once--he would take his offspring to the Sulamid spawning. What timing. With deLio gone, this would push a few security officers into new responsibilities.

She was reviewing possible replacements for the gamma shift bridge rotation when her annunciator went off. "Come in," she said, selecting a lieutenant for ops as she reached for her tea.

Jesala Cant strode in. "Commander."

Deanna set aside the padd and pulled back her hand, leaving the tea untouched. "Lieutenant."

"I spoke with my superior officer." Cant took slow steps forward. "You convinced him that I had done something wrong."

"You did."

"The captain is an unusual case, a very important one--the admiral impressed that on me from the beginning. I did nothing that I was not asked to do."

Deanna pushed her tongue against the backs of her teeth to keep herself from speaking in haste. Knitting her fingers, she rested her hands lightly on the desk. "The admiral asked you to ignore ethics."

"He wanted my input as a telepath. How could I give him that without--"

"Did you not consider that he meant he wanted your assessment of the captain's condition from a telepath's point of view, not that he wanted you to actually probe for answers?" Deanna glared up at her.

Cant hadn't considered it, but it only took a moment for her shock to vanish and defensiveness to rush in. Outwardly, she showed no emotion other than anger. "I did as I was asked. I did not prolong contact nor did I interfere in any way."

"You can explain that to the committee during the investigation. We'll see what they think."

"You're willing to ruin my career over this."

"If you wish to interpret it that way, yes. From my perspective it wasn't my doing at all. I warned you not to pry. I shouldn't have had to do that." Deanna snatched up the padd. "If you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

"If I misinterpreted orders--"

Deanna slammed down the padd, shoved back her chair and rose. "You expect anyone to believe that line of defense? The admiral giving the orders is Vulcan, very well-respected, and as anyone knows a Vulcan would never demand such an invasion of privacy."

"I'll fight this." Cant leaned across the desk as if trying to intimidate her physically. "My cousin in the Second House -- "

"I suggest you check my family tree before pulling distaff relations into the situation. As a Daughter of the Fifth House, my resources are considerable." Deanna took the glass to the replicator.

"Starfleet is all I know."

Cant's desperation, coming as it did on the heels of anger, brought a mixed reaction in Deanna. On the one hand, she knew the pain of making a bad decision that might have seriously affected her Starfleet career. On the other, she'd never done such a thing to a patient, and that it had happened to her captain, who was already compromised, only angered her more.

"I know you find it necessary to minimize what you've done to live with yourself. Don't expect me to do the same. Your poor judgement is not my fault."

Cant's eyes glittered like black glass. "I find it difficult to believe you were ever a counselor. You can't tell me you never used your own abilities in your work."

"There is a difference between observation and intrusion, Lieutenant. Please leave."

Finally, Cant wavered, her stiff posture faltering and her gaze dropping to the items on the desk. She studied the picture of Yves on his first birthday, then raised her head. "I only wanted to help, Commander. I don't think you understand how damaged he is."

"That isn't your concern."

Cant departed in a whirl of pale hair. With her she took all the negative emotions she'd brought, and her eventual departure from the ship was discernable. Deanna tapped behind her ear and waited for her stomach to settle. After a moment's meditation, she actively scanned, picking up familiar people's moods. Upon recognizing Natalia, she left her office and headed for the lift.

"Computer, locate Lieutenant Greenman."

"Lieutenant Greenman is in her quarters."

Deanna had to wait a few moments after pressing the annunciator. When the door finally opened, she stepped in to find Natalia out of breath and standing next to her bed trying to appear nonchalant. Natalia's room was tidy, with a scattering of pictures on the wall over her bed and a framed print of a painting on the wall opposite.

"Commander."

Deanna smiled at the lieutenant but Natalia's expression remained hard, angry, even cold. "Is something wrong?"

"I got your message."

"The one I forwarded you about the position? What did you think?"

Natalia softened, but not much. Deanna's refusal to answer the anger had helped. "I'm not transferring."

"I'm glad to hear it, although I do think it would have been a good career move for you." Deanna glanced around again, this time noticing the duffel on the floor at the foot of the bed.

Natalia noticed the look; shrugging, she said, "I'm taking a little leave. Word has it deLio's leaving--thought I'd catch a ride with him."

"Really?" Deanna studied the young woman, falling back on the counselor's demeanor and resisting the urge to speak. Usually that led to more revealing reactions than if a direct question had been asked.

Natalia's eyes narrowed. "Yeah."

"Well. I wish you'd said something earlier -- I'll have to ask Guinan to rearrange her schedule."

Brown eyes widened--the reminder of a duty she enjoyed yet had managed to forget about sparked a wash of guilt. Natalia bit her lip, eyes glancing off the floor, the duffel, the ceiling, and back up to meet Deanna's. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I should have talked to you about that."

"Everyone's stressed," Deanna said. "And there are others who can babysit. If you need leave, you should take it."

An awkward pause, after the sentiment rang false to both of them. Deanna couldn't be certain of what was going on, but Natalia's emotions betrayed it was something more than ordinary leave. Given deLio's earlier statement of intent--it could hardly be called a suggestion, and hopefully she'd thwarted it--and now this from the lieutenant, Deanna feared the worst.

Still, it could be deLio ordering Nat to take leave. He'd expressed regret that he hadn't ordered her specifically to avoid the captain. Her turmoil could be a result of that, in fact.

"I hope you aren't feeling guilty about what happened between you and the captain, Nat. It didn't cause any problems."

"The counselor said so, too, thanks." Natalia glanced at her with guilty brown eyes. "He thought I should take a day off. I thought about it and realized I hadn't taken more than a day in quite a while, and figured if he was going. . . ."

Deanna held her eyes until Natalia looked at the floor. "I hope you enjoy your leave."

"Yeah. I'd better go. I need to go, I mean, before he leaves me behind--" A purpose set her free from awkward pretense of nonchalance; she snatched up the duffel and sidled for the door. "We're supposed to leave in ten minutes."

"I'll walk you to the shuttle bay."

"That's okay, Commander, you don't have to. I'm going to run part of the way." Natalia hesitated just outside her quarters while Deanna joined her, then hugged her awkwardly. "Tell Yves I'll be back soon. I'll bring him a present. . . ."

Natalia charged off, not letting Deanna get a look at her face, but it didn't matter. Deanna knew that was more than a temporary good-bye; Natalia was imagining more dire consequences than would result from an ordinary leave. She wouldn't be crying under normal circumstances.

Deanna hurried after the lieutenant. As she reached the lift, she wondered how Natalia had gotten so far ahead--Nat must have started to run the instant she was out of sight. Deanna left the lift and was on her way to the shuttle bay at a fast walk when Ward charged up behind her.

"Commander!"

"Please don't tell me something else has fallen apart." At the end of gamma shift that morning, a panel had nearly flattened an ensign in engineering, likely the result of it being improperly fastened by a tired technician.

"Just my sanity." He glanced both ways and hurried along with her. "Can we stop for a minute?"

"I have to catch a shuttle."

"This is important."

He did seem quite alarmed by something. She slowed, but refused to stop. "So is this. What's going on?"

"I think we had some crew going AWOL."

That stopped her. "We do?"

"Obviously you do, too. You're heading for the shuttle bay. Don't worry, I put a stop to it." Ward crossed his arms. "I noticed something was up--Mendez saw deLio digging through a weapons locker and questioned him because he knew there was no inspection scheduled. Gregory said deLio was in sickbay asking questions about tranquilizers that stood the best chance of knocking out the broadest spectrum of physiologies. He was obviously planning a trip back to Alliance space."

"And you did what to stop this?"

"They feel the same way I do, obviously," Ward exclaimed, shrugging in a gesture reminiscent of Natalia's earlier attitude. "If the captain is that bad. . . how are you holding up? How's the holodeck situation? Is he awake yet?"

"He's fine, Ward. What did you do to stop deLio? Why do you say 'they' feel--" She stared at him, answered her own question based on the look on Ward's face and the regret and shame she sensed, and ran for the shuttle bay. The doors opened too slowly; she sidled through before they finished parting, just in time to see the blue flare of impulse engines in the narrowing gap of closing hangar doors. Seconds after the doors collided with a floor-shaking clang, the force field that had kept the air within the shuttle bay shut off, and the energy-saving seals and locks that protected the gaps between the doors hissed briefly before shutting off the flow of air.

The smaller pods were all there, in a rack along one wall. Two shuttlecraft sat in their places to her left; the *Flying Fish* took up two shuttle pads at the far right. The *Pauling*, which had occupied the middle pad, was gone.

"You distracted me," she exclaimed, turning on Ward as he came up behind her. He stopped short, alarmed by her open anger. "You said you kept them from going back out there!"

"You're really angry." He took a step backwards.

"Why the HELL would you think I wouldn't be? Troi to deLio! Troi to *Pauling*!" No answer. "Troi to bridge--get that shuttle back here!"

"Sir?" came a voice she didn't immediately recognize.

"If they don't respond to hails, get a tractor beam on them!"

"I'm sorry, sir, they just went to warp."

And the ship wasn't able to follow. She lunged toward Ward, forcing him back a meter, then two. "You helped them!"

"deLio said you knew. He said you offered him the shuttle. I thought you were maintaining deniability," he exclaimed.

"I told him to go on leave!"

Ward studied her, tilting his head. "So did I."

"But you knew where--Mr. Carlisle, I did not approve this expedition, implicitly or explicitly. Can you tell me the same?"

"I didn't tell them to go."

Deanna glared until he winced. "Neither did I. But you let them go. You distracted me so they could go. I suppose Natalia called and had them beam her to the shuttle bay, and you were dispatched to intercept me?"

Ward cleared his throat and straightened as if bracing himself for a physical assault. "I have a family--deLio insisted I stay, and I see his point. I guess if I could have ended my career that way, it's justifiable that I end it in helping them by staying behind."

"It's not justifiable!" As her voice echoed around them, she uncurled her fingers and took a deep breath. "None of this is justifiable," she continued at a more normal volume. "My security chief is gone, his second is on leave--authentic leave, not this fool's errand--and the captain's unfit. We're missing the alpha shift helm officer. We're short on the bridge and you're volunteering to fill in, at least until I decide whether or not to press charges."

"They're doing this for you, too," Ward blurted, suddenly red-faced. "Can't you see that? You think we can't tell what this is doing to you?"

Deanna struggled to keep her composure. When she breathed more evenly, she took one more step that put her within arm's length of him. "What it is doing to me is not the issue, Mr. Carlisle. For me to be unaffected is impossible--for me to cope and do my duty regardless of personal issues is exactly what I signed up to do, however, and I expected no less from any of you. While it's true that what you do with your lives and your careers is entirely your decision, it's my responsibility to be an example--I have to say that if your actions, or those of the officers aboard that shuttle, are influenced by what you've learned from me, I've failed all of you."

"I don't think so," Ward exclaimed, leaning close. "I think you would have gone if not for the children. He's that kind of captain--your attitude tells us that. If you could marry him after a decade of seeing first hand what his life is like and still function as an officer under him, you'd give up the rest of your career on an errand exactly like this. You aren't the only one who feels that way, Deanna, and I have to think you're overcompensating to not see it. The determination not to be accused of dereliction of duty out of personal motives is blinding you to what's right in front of you. You have loyal officers who would willingly go if you ordered them into harm's way, yet you can't see they'd do this for the captain?"

"Do what? Not give him a chance to let time heal him, race off into hostile territory on the slim chance that they'll stumble into the right solar system, find the right species of telepath, and return before he's forced into retirement? deLio never had coordinates or a decent star chart--that ship they were in belonged to another species and he made no headway in translating the written language. How am I going to explain to the captain why he's lost officers to this quest?"

Ward looked at the ceiling, mouth open, the turmoil of his emotions battering her. When he found words to answer, it wasn't what she expected. "You can tell him we did everything we could, for his sake, for your sake, and for Yves' sake. It's not the whole truth, but as a father I would appreciate it myself. I can't fathom he'd feel that much differently about it."

"It's not enough." But, strangely, it did drain most of the fury out of her, leaving her tired and defeated. What had she done to make deLio believe she condoned this? His motivations she understood--he had his own family at stake. But Natalia shouldn't have gone, he shouldn't have let her, and if they did make it back Deanna intended to inform deLio of the wrongness of letting the determined lieutenant ruin her short career this way.

"I knew the chances are slim that they'll find the K'korll. So did they. But if it's the only chance, Gregory believes, so they're willing to take it."

"Who went?" *Who else did we lose?*

"deLio and Greenman. deLio's three L'norim friends. Selar. Mendez."

"Mendez!" And silently, she wondered, what three friends? There were two L'norim aboard, the transporter chief and deLio, and so far as she could tell deOrda hadn't had much to do with deLio.

"I know. Another bridge officer's shift to cover. We'll manage."

"We certainly will. I suggest you get to the bridge. I'm supposed to have the afternoon off."

"Yes, sir," Ward exclaimed, executing a smart heel-to-toe about-face and striding from the shuttle bay. Once he'd gone, the room felt as empty as her heart.

She reached the nursery in a matter of minutes. Yves ran to her happily, the dog loping along behind. She waved to Malia before scooping up her son and carrying him out.

He entertained her with descriptions of the things they'd done in school on the way home. Somehow she managed a smile for Yves in spite of the burden. As they came in the door, the situation reminded her of her mother, of years of forced frivolity Deanna had only understood after she'd matured enough to perceive as the brave front that it was. She stared at the replicator, trying not to think about that or about the people who had flown away into the night on the slimmest of hopes that they could help.

"Mama?" Yves cried, forgetting the conversation he'd been having with Fidele about what he should get for a snack. He pulled her fingers until he could reach her sleeve, tugging until she dropped to her knee and let him hug her.

"Izza moo swing?" he said in her ear. It made her laugh, but want to cry harder at the same time. Jean-Luc had explained one of her moods that way, earlier in her pregnancy, and now Yves kept telling the daycare volunteers that the younger children were having 'moo swings' whenever they cried. "It's all wight, Mama, I wuv you."

"I know." She kissed his forehead and straightened his shirt, grinning at him. "Thank you. I feel better now."

Fidele butted her arm, tail waving. "Would you like some chocolate?"

"Who told you I like chocolate?" She balanced herself with a hand on his back as she rose. He was as stable as she knew he would be. Data had used the strongest materials possible without making the dog too heavy.

"I did," Yves exclaimed. He jumped in place, spinning and pointing up at the replicator. "Wet's have chocwatt! You few bettew with chocwatt!"

She nodded and ordered ice cream for both of them, wishing everything could be fixed so simply as her son believed.

@@@@@@@@@@@@

"We should ," zeRia snapped. She stood next to seKahl, the two of them a study in contrasts. Like most *ghifirim*, she was all lean muscle and sinew, her skin mottled like leaves in sunlight with dark and light greens. Without the cheek sacs her jaw line conformed to bone and teeth, her lips coming together over jutting white incisors. To deLio's eye, trained to human faces by long-term exposure, her lips seemed perpetually drawn together in disapproval--he would have to retrain himself quickly.

"We cannot contact the *dost*," deLio repeated. "We are already too far away."

In the common area of the runabout, just behind the cockpit, the four of them took up too much space. deVin sat at the table in the center; seKahl stalked back and forth and subsided, stopping again close to zeRia. She spoke in too-quick syllables of a dialect the translator matrix didn't have on file, so deLio had turned off his universal translator while trying to convince her. The others, Natalia, Selar and Mendez, sat at their stations in the front of the runabout; through the open door deLio could see Natalia's knee.

deVin huffed, his sacs not quite inflated, and snapped his teeth. "Fine. So we go forward."

It wasn't as if they could go back. Forward meant progress toward helping the captain; as long as the four of them were journeying toward their goal, an elder who could unify them, they were technically within tradition. deLio had his doubts about bringing them, especially the *ghif*, who was not even Starfleet, but there were no options. They must stay together on this journey or abandon the arrangement. If the *ghif* did not accept them this time, she would never consider them again.

seKahl's uncertainty showed in his posture. The *rehoh* had long, recurved spikes along their forearms; his were half-erect as his knotty-knuckled fingers drew random disapproval in the air. Staying still was not an easy thing for a *rehoh*. His dark gray skin looked darker in the almost-standard-issue uniform. Below the hems of the short sleeves, his muscles clenched and relaxed as spikes flexed and fingers twitched. He said nothing, but his red-orange eyes pled with deLio to end this argument and he paced again, back and forth, returning to zeRia's side as if drawing comfort from her.

"I did not come all the way from L'noriss to be distracted by this errand," zeRia exclaimed. "Custom will be respected."

"Yes, it will. This is not a distraction--I explained to you the seriousness of the captain's injuries."

deVin scowled, turned away quickly enough that his cheek folds snapped to instead of wobbling, and glared out a viewport. "I am pilot certified," he announced in the clumsy Standard of someone who had just learned it.

"We have several certified officers aboard. I did not imply incapability, I only acknowledge that you and seKahl have not yet reported for duty."

"Not that it matters, in this situation," seKahl muttered. "But do as you will."

deLio left them and joined the other three. Natalia looked up at him. "Everything all right?"

"It will be." At her confused expression, he thumbed his comm badge to turn on the translator and repeated the assurance. She nodded and turned back to her board.

deLio took a seat at defense systems. Behind him, Selar sat at communications. He heard a noise and glanced over his shoulder. She had put a kal toh game on the leading edge of her console and met his gaze over it, questioning.

It would be a long flight, and the tension between himself and his family should be allowed to dissipate. He would like a distraction, and Selar was an excellent player. He turned his chair.

"Your family?" Mendez tipped his head toward the door, and presumably meant the others. deLio nodded and made the first move of the game.

They went to warp and changed course. Approximately ten minutes later, a high-pitched, thready warbling began from the passenger compartment directly behind the bridge. A deeper voice joined it. Both ceased when deLio, whose part was supposed to begin at a particular point, did not sing as well. Though they were searching, this was not a hunt to make a kill, and such songs were inappropriate.

@@@@@@@@@@@@

He paced, thinking that once one experienced a multiplicity of realities, life was never the same. One began seeing things that did not make sense and suspecting the worst.

At first, Picard believed these were really his quarters, though with the addition of the nursery and the little boy's room, as expected. He amused himself in the usual ways, listening to music, reading, scanning the news. Then he watched the stars for a while and uneasiness began. There were no ships going by, not even a shuttle pod. The ship was in orbit around the starbase; there should have been changes in the view, however gradual.

Then he realized the picture he had taken with him to the temporary quarters, the one he had not brought here nor asked for, had been returned to its place.

Now he couldn't stop scrutinizing objects and trying to recall if they had existed or not. They kept saying he had amnesia. If they were right, how could he know what was out of place?

He left, wandering down corridors. Random crew he didn't recognize passed him. All seemed normal. Making his way from deck eight to deck four took a while; finally he decided to see what was going on. He got in the lift on deck four, section four, and said, "Bridge."

On deck three, the lift halted, the doors opened and Davidson came in. "There you are. Come with me, Captain."

"I don't have an appointment."

"Well, sir, that's true. I'd like to talk to you, though."

"What about?"

Davidson hesitated. Probably to come up with something; he blinked, kept smiling, but quite obviously was at a loss. "It's a bit complicated for a turbolift."

"And if I don't want to talk?" He tried not to stare at the black alien standing behind the counselor. Then he realized the lift hadn't started moving. "Computer, I wanted to go to the bridge."

"You are not authorized for bridge access."

"What?" Picard fumed silently for a moment. "Location of Commander Troi."

"Commander Troi is on the bridge."

"You can't go there, Captain, or any other sensitive ar--"

"Yes, yes, I know, it's called house arrest."

"That isn't what it is."

Picard stepped out of the lift. He was still on deck three. He hurried off and Davidson didn't follow. A short jog brought him to another turbolift. Unfortunately, it also left him short of breath. A wave of dizziness threatened to sweep him to the floor.

He leaned against a wall until it passed. When he straightened, he headed for sickbay. The doctor on duty wasn't someone he recognized. No one spoke to him, no one moved, just stared as if a strange animal had walked in. Picard left them there. He felt better, anyway, as if walking had done him some good. Perhaps a tour of the ship would be of some benefit.

The other departments he visited were the same. Were they talking about him? Did all conversation stop and all eyes go to the door the instant it opened because they didn't know who would come in to find them gossiping about the captain? Or was it something else--an aberration like the reappearing picture?

Something wasn't right about this ship he was on. It wasn't solely people's behavior that told him this, there could be other explanations, but still, something didn't feel right.

Another lift. "Bridge," he announced confidently. The upward motion was encouraging, but again, it halted on deck three, and again, the doors opened--this time it was just a lieutenant, a young man from sciences.

"Deck ten," the lieutenant exclaimed, smiling at Picard. "Good evening, sir."

Picard stared coldly until the man stopped smiling and faced forward. When the lieutenant got off on his deck, Picard sent the lift toward the bridge again. This time it stopped on deck six for a couple of ensigns heading for the gymnasium. The next time it stopped on deck seven, admitted a security officer, and let him off on deck twelve.

"Picard to Troi."

After a lengthy pause, she responded. "Troi here."

"I need to discuss something with you."

"I'm a little busy at the moment. Perhaps when I'm finished?"

"Now, please. Something's wrong."

"I'll send the doct--"

"Not with me. I need to talk to you as soon as possible. In person. Please?"

Another pause. He imagined her conferring with the counselor, the doctor, sending both of them to check on him. "All right, Captain. I'll meet you in your quarters."

"I'd rather come to the ready room."

She sighed. "Very well. I'll be waiting for you. Troi out."

This time, the lift went straight to the bridge, no stops for other passengers. He left the turbolift. The officers watched him from their posts. He ignored them and charged into the ready room. Troi waited behind his desk, as expected, her fingers knitted upon the arm of the chair.

"Something's wrong with this ship." He came to the desk, resting his hands on the edge.

She regarded him coolly, her eyes dark with no reflections. "Why do you say that?"

All his suspicions now seemed the height of paranoia--lifts were redirected all the time. He tried to think of how to explain.

"Why did you want to talk to me?" she asked finally.

"I told you, there's something wrong."

"Sit down, please." Deanna smiled, straightening and leaning forward to put her forearms on the desk. "I'm sure it's nothing we can't handle."

He stared at her, on the verge of obeying, but the wrongness was here, too. As he studied her eyes, her face, her posture, it came to him that she wasn't really there. Trying to correct that idea didn't work. Even when she reacted to his long contemplation of her, frowning and tilting her head, he couldn't shake the feeling--then he recognized the odd lingering sensation in his chest at last.

"Where are we?"

"Jean-Luc, why are you changing the subject? You said there was something wrong."

"There is. Where is the ship? We were at a starbase. I don't see it out any of the viewports."

"Have you looked from both sides of the ship?"

"Stop answering me with more questions! Where are we?"

"We're in a wide orbit around the starbase, about to depart. There's a few last minute things to be done, a few more people to return from leave, and we'll be on our way to the next assignment."

"When will I see my family again?"

Deanna dropped her gaze, her face contorting. She moved in the chair as if it was becoming uncomfortable. "You understand why you're on medical leave, don't you?"

"Yes," he said tiredly, "I understand that you all think I'm mentally incapacitated. But I'm not a threat to my own family."

"If our positions were reversed--"

"Fine, Deanna. Fine." He left, ignoring her when she called his name. In the lift he clenched and unclenched his fists. Intolerable. He closed his eyes, wishing the pulse of pain in his forehead would ease.

In his quarters again, he paced like a caged animal. Fury clouded his vision. And then, in an eyeblink, they were back--a gull stood on the end of the desk. Behind it in the chair sat an alien, almost blending with the black upholstery. Picard lashed out at the gull and swept the chessboard against the wall. Pieces rained to the floor, bouncing and rolling, as the boards and their supporting arms cracked apart. Snatching up a figurine from the other corner of the desk, he hurled it at the alien. But the figurine fell to the floor and the alien remained, unperturbed.

They had barred him from his family and most of his ship, forced him into counseling, taken the mission from him, and what did he have left? Unreality, a sort of limbo, an inexplicable, infuriating pain, and no patience for any of it. This was as unreal to him as Ressik had been at first, but in a more devious way -- externally everything seemed right, he just couldn't pin down the wrongness he was certain was there. And the alien would not go away, nor would the gull. The latter had settled on a shelf in the bookcase and squawked at him.

He went behind the desk, kicking aside chess pieces, and reached for the bird. His hand came away with a crystalline mineral sample, which he pitched to one side. What a hellish nightmare this was, being accused of weak-mindedness and now this. He grabbed the Klingon dagger from the top shelf.

He stopped on the verge of stabbing the bird. He'd wrapped his hand around the blade, not the handle as he'd thought. Yet--no pain, no blood. Adjusting his grip, he stared at his uncut palm. He pressed the knife edge to his sleeve, felt the pressure of the serrated metal. Drew it slowly across the thin fabric, made a tear, threads fraying. Pressed harder but only felt pressure. His skin would not break.

This should not be. He held up the blade, studying his warped reflection in the dark gray metal. Steeling himself, he grasped the edge of a shelf, adjusted the knife in his grip, and drove the point at the back of his hand. He felt nothing--the blade appeared to sink into his flesh, appeared to slide right out again, but where there should be terrific pain and torn flesh he felt only a tingle.

He hurled the dagger from him. "ARCH!"

Nothing. He panted, eyeing the room that wasn't really there and hating, hating, hating them all for doing this to him.

@@@@@@@@@@@@

Yves added another block to his masterpiece, standing on the upended block box to do so. The unsteady tower swayed but didn't tip, to its creator's joy. He pointed at the pile on the floor. "Get a bwoo one."

Fidele picked up a blue one, holding it carefully with his teeth. Yves took it and stood on tiptoe. When he wavered as if losing his balance, the dog stepped behind him and leaned to let him sit on his shoulder. Yves managed to add the block to the top of the precarious stack. When the annunciator distracted him, however, he turned, miscalculated, stepped off the edge of the box, and collided with the tower. He would have fallen face-first to the floor if Fidele hadn't lunged and caught the back of Yves' pants in his teeth.

Deanna's heart leaped into her throat. She saw, however, that no flesh had been bitten, only clothes, as Yves found his feet and exclaimed over the fallen tower. Fidele let go the instant the boy stood on his own and began helping Yves gather up blocks that had tumbled far and wide. The annunciator chimed again.

"Come in," Deanna called, setting aside the padd she'd been reading.

"Hi!" Yves shouted, dropping a double-handful of sticky blocks. "Wanna pway bwocks?" Fidele, two red blocks in his mouth, turned his head and wagged his tail to greet Geordi, who grinned and detoured toward the center of the room to muss Yves' hair.

"Sure, kiddo. Let me talk to your mom first." Geordi guided a few stray blocks toward the pile with his foot. "Tell you what, you get all the blocks separated into piles, and when you're done we'll build a castle."

Yves knew the drill well. He began picking up blocks one at a time then dropping them into piles, at a rate that should give them plenty of time for conversation. Fidele pounced into the pile and used his paws to separate colors. Geordi walked to Deanna and sat with her on the couch, where she picked up the padds she'd been studying.

"I'm fine," she began, answering the inevitable question.

"And the captain?"

She paused, checking. "He's not happy, but he's coping."

"At least the admirals are off our backs." He watched Yves and Fidele counting the green blocks, glanced at her, and nodded at the dog and boy. "Working out pretty well, isn't it?"

"Other than Fidele being banned from the nursery, they're inseparable. Malia came by earlier and asked me, on behalf of herself and the other caregivers, not to let Yves bring him again. Too much of a distraction and object of contention."

"If anything ever happens to him, I have all his specifications. Encrypted, of course. Anyone asked questions about him?"

"Not really. I'm trying not to tell too many people what he is. That would lead to too many questions and unwanted attention. Remember Lal?"

"Yeah, I do. And when they tried to take Data away from us." Geordi nodded at the empty cup on the end table. "You want a refill?"

"No, that's all right. I should have offered you something, I'm sorry--would you like a beverage?"

"You just stay put, I can help myself." He patted her arm and went to the replicator. "I have it on good authority deLio actually took leave."

"That's what he claimed to be doing. I ordered him to take leave." She waited while he returned with hot tea. When he sat facing her again, she clasped her hands in her lap and went on. "I told him that he could not go back into Alliance territory."

Geordi gaped. "Oh. And supposedly he didn't. But."

"Indeed. It's put me in a very difficult situation. I know of at least one officer who was an accessory. . . oh, Geordi," she sighed, sensing his guilt. "I don't want to hear about it. I can't stand losing all of you at once--"

She covered her mouth with her hand and turned toward the wall, hoping Yves hadn't seen. But while Geordi struggled for something to say, she heard rapid footfalls to and fro, and then felt a tugging at her sleeve. Yves held up half a cookie; he must have stashed it earlier when Guinan visited and gave them a dozen of them.

"It got chocwatt in it," he exclaimed.

"Thank you," she said, smiling and kissing the top of his head. "But you know, I feel much better all of a sudden--why don't you have it, that would make me feel even better."

"Okay!" He sidled around the coffee table, plopped down on the floor next to Fidele, and nibbled while lining up another block with its mates.

"Wow," Geordi said.

"Chocolate's good for mood swings, you know." Deanna watched Fidele endure a head-patting. "Yves, not so hard. You don't want to hurt him."

Yves patted more gently. "I'm sowwy, Delly. Want the cookie?"

"No, thank you. I do not eat."

"I don't think he could hurt him," Geordi murmured.

"I know that, but we don't want him to meet a real dog and do the same."

Fidele pushed Yves with his nose. "What shall we do now?"

"How about that castle?" Geordi got up to join them on the floor.

Deanna relaxed, a pillow stuffed behind her still-aching back. As she watched the castle being built, her eyelids drooped ever so gradually, and Geordi's enthusiastic suggestions answered by Yves' high-pitched agreements or counter-suggestions became less coherent to her. It was as though she listened to them through a wall, or from very far away, and the soft ripping of blocks torn apart and the clatter of blocks knocked down barely registered.

She drifted, awake but lulled into a hazy, quiet state, not thinking about anything. Her awareness of her unborn child intensified; Amy hovered with her, simply a presence without the cluttered thought-static or awareness of an adult or the chaotic emotions of a young child.

Then she felt the surge of unbridled rage, became aware of things other than herself and her child, and sent her thoughts elsewhere, scanning--she knew at once whose anger it was, and there was no indication of why he felt it. Flashes of other instances of his anger passed through her mind. Especially the Borg. She remembered those scars, physical and otherwise, too well. This new rage had the same desperate undertone to it.

Attempts to interact with him failed. Eventually, the fury dwindled to a pensive, constant state of frustrated ire, and now he was thinking. This too was familiar; he often puzzled over a difficult problem this way, searching for solutions from all angles. He directed his energy toward something no doubt calculated to address that anger. She knew when he made a decision, and how he felt about it. She had to find out what the decision was.

Her limbs responded sluggishly. It reminded her of returning to gravity after a null gravity drill. Yves' block castle had tripled in size -- she must have been drifting for a long time. Three towers, a fourth in progress, and a partial wall around it, not to mention the presence of the second box of blocks she'd left in Yves' room, told her she had traveled far beyond consciousness. Geordi glanced at her when she carefully rose from the couch. Yves caught the look and rose from his knees, a block in hand.

"Wook what we bid when you dormir, Maman," he cried, lapsing into French in mid-sentence and losing grammar in his excitement.

"I see it. It's a very good castle, and I think you should finish it and take a picture. I'm going to visit someone, Yves. Stay here with Uncle Geordi, all right?"

"Okay." Yves curled and uncurled his fingers, waving good-bye. He turned his attention to the wall, added another block, and instructed Fidele to pass him another blue one.

Deanna went to the holodeck. Nothing had changed; it still insisted it was out of service when she touched the controls. She pondered Jean-Luc's condition--he still contemplated, but not with the same intensity. There was only one way to find out if her guess, that he'd figured out where he really was, was correct. She had half the entry code entered when Ben Davidson arrived.

"Gregory has sickbay monitoring him. They paged me."

Deanna finished entering the sequence. The doors sighed open, and she crossed the threshold into a corridor exactly like the one she'd left. Fixing the location of the holodeck entrance and making it a mirror image of itself inside made one do a double-take. The counselor followed her without further comment. She stepped aside when they reached the captain's quarters, however, and Ben raised an eyebrow but took the initiative.

Three tries of the annunciator didn't provoke a response. Ben sighed, chewed his lower lip briefly, and keyed in a code. The door slid open. Deanna followed the counselor inside, paying close attention to Jean-Luc's emotional state, which came into clearer focus the closer she was to him.

He had turned one of the easy chairs to face the viewports. Only the top of his head and the edge of a book he held were visible from behind. Ben stood next to the chair and said, "Captain? Is everything all right? You weren't answering the door."

Jean-Luc was exerting considerable effort to remain still, Deanna sensed, but he was angry and frustrated, and his uncertainty, buried as it usually was in a crisis, barely registered. She came forward to peer down at what he was reading. Poetry, of all things. She glanced around and inhaled sharply. He'd been throwing and breaking things, but seemed to have regained control at some point. Though the chessboard was destroyed and most of the keepsakes had been thrown against a wall, about a third of the books had been stacked on the desk. She wished she had checked the log to see what he'd been doing before the rage struck. Turning, she noticed a quick movement of his eyes--he'd glanced up at her. His mouth set, he focused on the pages in front of him again.

"Captain," Ben exclaimed, requesting a response, but Jean-Luc didn't react. "We're only trying to help. Let us help you."

Jean-Luc rubbed his forehead pensively as if pondering a difficult stanza.

Deanna touched Ben's shoulder, guided him away from the chair, and took his place, looking at Jean-Luc's face for the first time. His eyes didn't waver from the book he held balanced on his knee; he'd sunk down in the chair like a sullen child, as if trying to hide.

"You think we're not real, like the rest of this," she said.

He met her gaze, only his eyes moving, and they burned with questions and hope. He seemed to be holding his breath. She noticed the left sleeve of his white shirt had been torn--no, cut. The edges were straight, but whatever he'd used had pulled threads awry.

"You tried to cut your arm. It didn't work, and that told you this is a holodeck. So now you're ignoring everything, because you don't care to be manipulated. You think we're holograms."

His head turned toward her, just enough for her to notice the movement. She waited, knowing the counselor hovered and anticipated.

"A little while ago, you weren't real," he said.

The only way he would have seen her holographic double would have been if he'd gotten around the stalling tactics she'd asked Geordi to include. It shouldn't be impossible for him to find her replica, she had reasoned, but she should increase the odds. He had not only gotten to her doppelganger, he had deduced that it was a fake. Now he recognized her as real.

She reached for the book. He didn't try to prevent her, let it slip from his fingers. "I wasn't real. But I am now?"

"Yes." He shifted in the chair, straightening and knitting his fingers, resting his hands in his lap.

"Does this poem describe how you feel? '*A stranger has come/To share my room in the house not right in the head,/A girl mad as birds/Bolting the night of the door with her arm her plume*.'" When he didn't respond, she skipped a few stanzas and continued. "'*Possessed by the skies/She sleeps in the narrow trough yet she walks the dust/Yet raves at her will/ On the madhouse boards worn thin by my walking tears*.'"

"Dylan Thomas has never been my favorite," he said. "Most of his work, though vivid, sounds to me like a fever dream."

"But you were reading it. Given the availability of so many works of so many writers, you find something in Thomas that -- "

"What does the swan mean?"

Keeping a finger on the page so she wouldn't lose her place, she shut the book and met his eyes. What was happening in his mind? "The swan?" she asked, stalling. Thomas had used certain images over and over in his work --birds and skies had a prominent place in this particular poem. 'A girl mad as birds,' with an arm like a plume--was Jean-Luc beginning to make connections that had so far eluded him?

"I'm sure you understand what I'm talking about. You've left it for me twice. The swan."

"You mean the figurine? It's something that belonged to your mother. You gave it to me."

He eyed her suspiciously. "There's more to it. There has to be."

"Yes, but I was hoping you would remember what that was on your own."

"This isn't about what I remember or forget."

Well, that was a good sign, in its own way. Redefining the circumstance in his own terms wasn't unusual. "It's not?"

"It's about what is real. Because all successful deceptions include the truth to some degree, I have to understand what is real in this circumstance. How much of what I've experienced since this mission began is a deception, an illusion, and how much is true. I've been told repeatedly that I'm the one who's misguided--that seems true enough, but by whom, and to what degree, I am no longer certain."

"But you think I'm real. I can tell you where the illusion began."

"No, you can't. Because as real as you may be, there's a distinct possibility that they've deceived you equally. Were we on the *Enterprise* as we thought, then separated, or did we both fall into the hands of aliens who used what they found in our thoughts to build all of this? It wouldn't be the first time that's happened."

Deanna nodded, smiling bitterly at this turn of opinion. He had to be improving mentally to come to these conclusions, but this wasn't a good direction for him to take. "Are you saying everyone else you meet is an illusion, and that I've been deceived as well? That would be a remarkable trick--I can tell a hologram from a person."

"But you could be brainwashed into believing otherwise."

Crossing to the desk, she glanced again at the page to make sure she remembered the title of the poem, clapped the book shut, and dropped it on a stack with some others. "So if I tell you that Ben is real, you believe I'm deluded. That's very convenient. How do you know, then, that you yourself aren't being deceived into believing that I am real? Because anyone capable of deceiving me would be able to do the same to you."

"I could be wrong."

She turned around and leaned against the desk, crossing her arms. He didn't think he was wrong. He watched her with disquieting calm and bright eyes, almost smiling. Something pleased him immensely. "Do you think I'm under someone else's control, or deluded?"

His eyes narrowed. "No."

"Then you would trust me if I told you the counselor is real."

"You could be lying."

"Jean." She approached slowly as she spoke. "I'm not here for a debate. I sensed your anger. I wanted to be certain you were all right. Since you are, I'll leave the counselor to--"

"I won't talk to him."

She ignored Ben's stunned look. "Why?"

"It won't do any good."

"I'm sure you're right. You would have to believe it would, for it to help. But Ben is all the help you're going to have, because I can't help you." The instant she took a step, she sensed his anxiety.

"You won't help, you mean."

"I don't know what you expect me to do, but I'm doing all that I can for you. You'll have to accept that."

"You put me on a holodeck, deceived me--what kind of cruel joke is that to play on someone you suspect is having some sort of breakdown?"

She closed her eyes, knowing too well how everything she felt showed in them, and flattened her hands against her thighs. "I was only thinking of your safety, Jean-Luc. There's nothing on a holodeck that will hurt you, either directly or indirectly."

"I suppose that's all you were thinking about. My safety? Possibly yours, probably the crew's--since you think I'm mad, that makes perfect sense."

She looked at him, almost jumping in surprise--he had risen and now stood close, gazing at her, his expression matching the cool tone he'd taken. His words carried veiled reproach, his anger contained but palpable.

"I don't believe you're mad. You weren't mad after Locutus."

His mouth tightened.

"Compromised. Brainwashed. If you'd like to prove otherwise, here's the counselor," Deanna exclaimed, heading for the door. "You knew he was real all along."

"I didn't. Precautions."

She spun on her heel in the middle of the room, to find him standing behind her. He seemed to be drawn along after her no matter what. "Precautions!"

"You aren't the only one who can take them."

"You," she exclaimed, then paused to regroup. She spent a moment trying to think but found herself coming up short, and too tired to care. "Computer, override current settings--replace the *Enterprise* simulation with the setting from stored program Picard 32-gamma-5. Impose restrictions from current simulation on the new one. Load program."

The room faded and briefly showed the usual yellow-on-black grid, then the new simulation coalesced around them. Davidson looked around, intensely curious, and Jean-Luc shot him a glance before crossing his arms and facing Deanna again.

"Why?" He inclined his head toward the house. She'd put them in front of the Picard home in France, in late spring. The sinking sun burned the clouds to scarlet paths across the sky. On a slight breeze came the musty, leavened odor of a working winery.

"Because I can't take you home. This will have to do. It's better than cooping you up in an imaginary ship--at least now you can go for walks in the country if you feel up to it."

He gestured for her to join him, turning toward the house; she shook her head. She thought he might insist, but he strode up the lawn to the steps. When the door closed behind him, Deanna turned to the counselor at last.

"I thought it was a convincing program," Ben murmured. "We should have figured he would go straight after you. He's improving."

"Or he's altered again. Or his more aberrant symptoms have subsided in the absence of certain stimuli. Only time will tell. Good night, Ben. Computer, arch."

He followed her out of the holodeck, but went the other direction. In her quarters, Deanna found Geordi on the couch with padd in hand and Yves nowhere in sight. He jumped up the minute she arrived.

"I'm so sorry," she said softly. "But I'm glad I went. He saw through the simulation."

"Well, figures. I expected that." He glanced at Yves' door. "Yves insisted on a story and his uniform pajamas. He lectured me on cleaning your teeth at night."

"Yes, he's very good at lecturing. Not that it's so surprising. Thank you for staying."

"Hey, I told you, anything I can do. . . . I'm going to take this and work on it some more, all right?" He held up the padd. "You'd better get to bed soon yourself. You look beat."

"I concur. Good night, Geordi. I hope you let me see the next draft?"

"Sure. I appreciate the constructive criticism. Sleep well."

She checked on Yves after Geordi left. Her son slept soundly. Fidele, at attention but reclining on the floor at the foot of the bed, touched her hand with his nose in silent greeting. Ordering out the lights as she went, she retired to her bedroom at long last.

Someone pulling on her arm woke her from a sound sleep. As she opened her eyes to darkness, the quiet irregular breathing and a sob caught in the throat told her Yves had come to her upset. "What's wrong?" She found his head and stroked his fine hair.

"Papa's mad at me."

Deanna sat up, immediately checking. "Petit, your father's asleep. He's not mad at you. You had a bad dream."

"Are you mad at me?"

"Oh, Yves," she sighed, "come up here." She helped him climb up and hugged him.

"I'm sowwy." Yves kicked her thigh while trying to keep his balance on the bed. "I wuv you."

"I love you, too. Want to sleep here with me?"

He sat down and wriggled around while she arranged the covers. She heard light footsteps--Fidele, of course. He settled at the end of the bed, his body making an audible impact on the carpet. It took no time at all for Yves to fall asleep, but she listened to his breathing for a long time.

@@@@@

Picard awakened to the sun in his eyes. The disorientation caused by finding himself on the couch in the Picard home was slow to dissipate; he remembered at last the previous day's events, gained his footing in the reality of a holodeck simulation of home, and replicated breakfast.

The house was exactly as he remembered it, but with additions. As with the prior simulation of the ship, he began to find small variations from what he expected. There could be no motive for such alterations and Deanna had had no time to make them; this program had been called up with his name, and that meant he had been responsible for its creation. He assumed, therefore, that this simulation reflected the reality of its counterpart in France as it was now.

He wandered outside. The outbuildings were uninhabited, save for holographic horses in the stables. Two of them. He left them in their stalls. From the bottom of the gently-sloped back yard, he followed the footpath into the woods and found the tree house he and his brother had built as boys, except certainly this must be a holographic re-creation; by now the original wooden structure must have fallen to pieces.

The sun was directly overhead by the time he finished his walk around the property. The replicator in the kitchen was a welcome enough addition. He requested *pochouse* and took it to the dining room. As he ate and endured replicated wine, he realized how silent it was inside. The tick of the grandfather clock seemed to echo down the hall. Distant bird song was the only other sound. How disquieting. The last time he remembered being here, his brother's family had inhabited the rooms now empty of life.

After finishing the fish stew, he absently dropped the dishes in the sink and went wandering. Late afternoon sun streamed through the windows. Somewhere, a bird sang. The clock ticked.

"Computer," he called, hoping to return to the ship simulation. Now that he had confirmed it as a holographic illusion, being in a ship not quite right was preferable to this encompassing reminder of how solitary he was. The computer didn't answer. He glanced around the living room, noting that this had hardly changed at all. The curio cabinet had been moved into the corner furthest from the door, and the sofa and chairs shifted to ring the hearth. The ceramic swan in the cabinet caught his eye; he crossed the room and opened the etched-glass door. The swan fit in the palm of his hand.

Someone opened the door. The thudding footsteps echoed in the empty house, shocking him to stillness. A long pause, then more steps, and a man stopped in the door.

"Robert?"

"Home again, I see," the apparition growled, sounding too accurate.

"What are you?"

"What am I, he asks. Too much philosophy, not enough reality, Papa used to say." Robert turned away. From the sounds he had gone in the kitchen.

"You're not real," Jean-Luc insisted, following, the ceramic swan in hand. "None of this is. It's all a charade, holograms and hallucinations. I would never have programmed you into the holodeck."

"I suppose I should be thankful for not being included in your modern technological fantasy machine," Robert answered, his voice rising. When Jean-Luc came into the kitchen, however, his brother had vanished.

"Typical," Jean-Luc said. Shaking his head, he turned to leave and froze, mouth open, staring at the person he had nearly run into.

She wasn't tall--she was about Deanna's height, perhaps an inch or two taller, and her silver hair had been meticulously tucked into a knot at the nape of her neck. "Hello, Jean-Luc."

"Maman?"

Her thin lips, accentuated with the trace of pink lipstick she usually wore, pursed in mock-indignation. "Oh, now, is that any way to greet me? Such shock that I would be in my own house!"

"But. . . ." He glanced at the replicator built into the cabinetry over the much-older stove. She'd never had a replicator.

Yvette Gessard straightened and crossed her arms. "You haven't been taking very good care of yourself. Have you slept at all?"

"What is going on?"

She stepped around him, into the kitchen proper, and went to the sink. The dress she wore was familiar--a white print against a green background, like tiny blossoms on a lawn. Her comfortable house shoes made no sound on the hard floor.

"Maman," he exclaimed, about to demand more information, but she turned from looking out the window and gazed at him seriously.

"You've forgotten, haven't you?" she murmured. "You need to remember, cher. Please try."

"Remember what?"

"You know." She stared at the swan in Picard's hand. "What does that mean to you?"

"The swan? It's yours. The real one was, anyway, this is just a hologram."

"Is it?" She tilted her head and somehow no longer reminded him of his mother, though she looked just like her.

"You're a hallucination. I don't want to have any more delusions."

"I'm not a delusion, cher."

"What are you, then?"

"I can't tell you that until you know what the swan means." She spun in place, skirt fluttering around her calves, and looked through the window again. "It's very important that you remember what the swan means, Jean-Luc. You have to remember soon."

"Does it have something to do with Deanna?"

"Does it?"

"It does. It means--" Picard fumbled frantically, trying to comprehend. "The swan is a password, a key, and you're -- you're not really here. Are you? I'm imagining you." He took a step--but Maman was gone.

The swan was the key. Picard left the kitchen, went outside, and paced along the porch, absently tracing the curved neck of porcelain with his fingers and recalling the dream of the swan in the surf. That swan had seemed dead, but revived somehow to struggle against the waves. He'd tried to reach her and been pulled under, only to be brought to the surface--rescued by a swan?

"Deanna," he said aloud. "It's her --she's the swan. I forgot about her, I feel strongly enough to risk myself for her despite that, and in the end. . . she's the solution to the problem. She's the key. She kept showing me this figurine--she wanted me to remember it. Because she's the swan. I called her my. . . ."

"You called her. . . ?"

Picard turned around to find his mother had come up behind him. "I called her cygne," he whispered.

Maman smiled proudly and gently guided Picard's eyelids shut with his fingertips. He felt the feathery brush of her lips along his forehead. "Remember," she breathed. "Just relax, and remember. . . ."

"Captain?"

Picard opened his eyes. He stood in a corridor outside the ship's theater. Beside him stood his first officer, Data. "Sorry. I must be tired."

"Intermission is almost over. We should return to our seats."

"Yes, of course."

They joined the few others who'd come out to stretch their legs, filing into the theater and moving down the aisles. Picard noticed Counselor Troi watching them from her seat several rows down and six seats away, but when he smiled she turned around without returning it. Strange.

The rest of the audience seated themselves, and the curtains opened on the second half of a play written by one of the medical staff. The main plot was simple, a lieutenant being taken advantage of by a first officer and the consequences of the commander's manipulations, but the characters were the play's strength; by the end of the third act most of what had happened had been revealed to be just surface action, the emotional undercurrents beginning to show through and revealing the lieutenant as more than what she had appeared to be.

During a scene change Picard glanced across at the counselor again. What little light reached the audience's faces from the stage showed her expression clearly enough. She was distracted and pensive, and a lieutenant sitting next to her had to touch her arm to get her attention.

The play ended with the court-martial of the first officer. The actress playing the lieutenant was very good, Picard thought--her portrayal of a woman betrayed, angered, then triumphant over her oppressor had been completely believable. As the final curtain call ended and the audience began to disperse, he got up and stepped into the aisle to let Data out.

"I shall take another turn around the bridge," Data announced. "Good night, Captain."

"Good night, Data. See you in the morning."

Though other crew smiled politely at him on their way out, no one else spoke to him. Troi had not left her seat, though the seats to her left had all cleared. Going against the flow of traffic, he edged down the aisle and sidled over to her.

"Did you enjoy the play, Counselor?"

She jumped--how odd. He'd never seen her startled. "Yes, I did," she exclaimed, too fervently. She used the back of the chair in front of her to pull herself up.

"I thought Ensign Marco did an excellent job. The casting was particularly well-done."

"Yes, she was quite convincing." Troi seemed to have misplaced something; she searched the floor around her feet.

"You've lost something?"

"My comb." She waved her hand at the side of her head, where her hair fell unencumbered across her face. The other side was still swept back with a comb. He joined her search, finally locating it on the floor behind her seat. Knee in a chair, he leaned and caught it in his fingers.

"There you are."

"Oh, thank you," she said, snatching it and immediately tipping her head to put it back in her hair. Her eyes met his and flicked away again, focusing on a point over his left shoulder. "Well. Good night, sir." A forced smile, a shrug, and she turned to make her way down the row. She moved up the aisle, only to be stopped by a young man; Picard watched the man's face fall as she responded to whatever he'd said, watched him follow her with his eyes as she strode for the exit.

Picard sympathized with the man. Troi didn't show any interest in him, either. In fact, he was reasonably certain she was avoiding him, especially off duty. On a slow walk back to his quarters--slow because hers were just down the corridor, and being rebuffed twice in an evening didn't appeal--he remembered brighter days, when she had been at ease in his presence. Talking over tea in his ready room, of a mission or a cultural curiosity, or about morale or some other crew-related issue. Sitting with her at concerts and other ship functions. Having actual conversations.

Will's leaving had been understandable and bittersweet; finally taking his own command made sense. Beverly's departure had been a logical end to something that hadn't really begun, which was perhaps less of a tragedy than he'd thought. It was, he decided, the expected ending of any family. Eventually the members went their own ways, leaving only sporadic communications to maintain what was left of old ties.

But the counselor seemed to be doing it backward. Showing no sign of leaving, yet losing contact with him. He tried to understand what he could have said or done and came up with nothing. He'd have to ask her. But how to go about it? 'Excuse me, why are you avoiding me' sounded like paranoia. 'I couldn't help but notice that we haven't talked lately. . . .' No. It was impossible.

He reached his door. The corridor was empty. So were his quarters; he would walk in, perhaps ask for music. He might read to engage his mind so it had no chance to wander. He might drink something to hopefully make him sleepy. The play had been a distraction from confronting this, but he couldn't put it off forever. Stepping through the doors as they opened, he took six steps and halted. The silence was there, the only constant in his personal life. He had always been alone, had always come back to his quarters this way, but he hadn't always felt the loneliness.

Data was on the bridge. Will was on his ship. Beverly was on yet another vessel in another sector far away. Worf was on the homeworld for another few weeks, according to the last message from him. Geordi had been at the play but departed with several of his friends, probably heading for the lounge. Guinan could be anywhere by now; he hadn't heard from her in more than a year. Other friends from pre-Enterprise endeavors were scattered across the Federation pursuing other goals. It couldn't be helped.

He stood in darkness, wishing, hating himself for indulging self-pity and powerless to stop. It was a sorry sort of man who found himself in this circumstance and pitied himself for it. There wasn't a decision in his life he could unmake, and not many of them he would want to. He was exactly where he should be. He had everything he'd ever wanted.

Yet he thought of the counselor's face, there in the stage lights as she watched characters in a play act out their tempestuous relationships for all to see. He recalled the forced way she'd responded to his routine question--she hadn't enjoyed the play any more than he had. He had been unable to participate in the emotional drama of officers who had inadvertently sacrificed their careers for love; part of him had rejected the notion at the outset. The superb acting and the excellent script had been admirable enough. He appreciated the artistry and the care that had gone into the production. But it hadn't engaged him fully as had other plays, and perhaps that reflected his life, as romantic relationships had never been something he'd allowed to blossom.

The counselor hadn't had the same difficulty, he guessed. Her distraction seemed to indicate the play had made her pensive and withdrawn. He didn't know of any romantic entanglements; if she were attached to someone else, he hadn't seen the usual signs. Perhaps someone off the ship? Perhaps. . . Will Riker. A parallel between the play's characters and her relationship with the former first officer? They had seemed upset with one another around the time Will left; he'd been cordial but cool, she'd reciprocated. Perhaps they had reconciled since then.

The thought hit home in a way the play hadn't. Picard actually staggered, putting a hand on the back of a chair. He was going to lose her, too. He already had. And in realizing this, he discovered just how great a loss that was.

The darkness of his quarters suited him. In the faint light of the stars, he seated himself at the table, hunched forward and groping for composure. All the years he had lived weighed more than usual, and the years remaining to him seemed an unknown but treacherous terrain. Going home to France meant an empty house that only reminded him of his deceased relatives. Staying on the ship meant seeing the remainder of his officers replaced by strangers. Accepting promotion meant traveling in a circle of officers turned politicians, which was what being an admiral really meant most of the time, and what comradery was possible there?

He didn't like counseling, or that he'd needed it. He'd initially thought her position superfluous, in fact, since he hadn't had a counselor on the *Stargazer* and done quite well. She had struck him as being very young and quite weak. The weakness, he had come to realize later, he perceived only because she wore her emotions in her eyes for all to see. Later, in counseling following his traumatic assimilation, he had seen his own emotions in those eyes and recognized the strength in her forbearance. The more he spoke with her, in counseling or out, she revealed herself gradually, until he understood--his counselor had sharp powers of observation, intelligence, and immense patience for those who underestimated her. Which was a good thing, as many had done so. Her softness remained, in spite of everything. She seemed to like everyone, always had an encouraging word, always had a way of listening that made the speaker feel as though everything he said mattered.

Picard didn't matter to her any more, if her actions were any indicator. The loss of her friendship laid waste to him more than the loneliness--what had he done? Why would she, who befriended everyone and had genuine empathy for all, turn away from him so completely? Could it be that she'd sensed in him what he now realized he felt?

He went to bed, only to toss and turn. The following morning on the bridge didn't help. She didn't show up; her latest status report came to him, keyed to his attention, when he logged into the ship's systems. He saw her briefly in the officer's mess, on her way out as he came in. She didn't appear to notice him.

A week crawled by. Her visits to the bridge were sporadic and usually made when he wasn't there; he crossed paths with her several times but she never stopped to speak to him. She volunteered for officer of the watch on gamma shift. This behavior wasn't what he would have expected from her. Something was wrong.

Finally he asked the computer for communications logs dating back two months, looking for clues. He viewed all messages sorted by sender; it was his right to monitor all aspects of ship's operations, he told himself, setting the excuse in his mind in case the ever-vigilant and detail-oriented first officer asked why he'd accessed these logs. What he found there relieved and terrified him. Nothing to or from Riker, plenty from her to Betazed--her mother, the university, a psychology practice, a staffing company--and to Earth--the Academy, another university, another staffing service. Whatever troubled her, it had nothing to do with Will. Anxious, awash in sudden hope, he hurried from his ready room.

When he arrived in the lounge, his resolve had faltered. But she was alone, looking downtrodden and hopeless. He knew what that was like --his heart went out to her, the counselor who had helped him so much and the friend who had sat next to him at poker games. He crossed the room. At least he could try to talk to her, perhaps offer a letter of recommendation, perhaps bring temporary relief from whatever was dragging her under. She would never love him in return, but she was still a friend to whom he owed a great debt. He had to restore a foundering friendship, one of the few genuine friendships he had left.

"Jean-Luc?"

He opened his eyes. Maman knelt next to him. He'd fallen on the porch, laying flat on the boards, the ceramic swan on its side centimeters from his slack fingers. Maman rose and backed away as Picard struggled to his feet and picked up the swan.

He remembered all of it now. Every crisis they faced together, every milestone reached, the wedding, the baby. The flower he'd left for her before going to Khevlin. The look on her face when she'd seen the things he had broken last night in his rage against her for trapping him on the holodeck.

"What did you do?" he asked, hoarse and weak-kneed. Stumbling against the railing, he propped a shoulder against the nearest post. "What. . . ."

"You haven't been well, cher. You're much better now."

"I'm talking to a hallucination, and I'm better?" He laughed bitterly. "Mon Dieu, what a damnable mess! My wife--my officers--"

He turned away and inadvertently struck his head against the post. Momentary pain distracted him but the greater pain returned, choking him. His knuckles whitened on the porch railing. He heard a quiet snap and realized he'd broken the neck of the swan, and a jagged edge pressed against his thumb--it didn't cut him. He wished it would.

"You'll be all right."

She looked so much like Maman, down to the affectionate smile. So like her, and so positively not her. The persistence of the hallucination, the audacity of it, impersonating his mother--intolerable. What if the next hallucination looked like Deanna? It had to stop.

"GO AWAY!"

He threw the swan blindly, and heard it smash on the sidewalk. Maman had disappeared again. He stared at the shards of white scattered across the cracked gray pavement.

How could he possibly face Deanna again, as an officer or as her husband?

@@@@@@@@@@

"Commander?"

Deanna blinked, bringing the viewscreen back into focus. "Yes, Mr. Carlisle?"

"All departments have reported in. Admiral Nechayev just came aboard."

"Take us out, Ensign."

The *Enterprise* left the starbase at half impulse. In her detached state, Deanna knew Ward was concerned for her; she must have lapsed into silence for a noticeable period of time. She knew the other officers on the bridge were puzzled. Of more concern, however, was the state of complete despair Jean-Luc had fallen into.

His anger had gotten her attention first. Then there had been a short period of shifting emotion that still confused her--he must have been remembering something. The temptation to go to him was great, but the early departure demanded her attention. A call had come in from the *Santee*. The *Enterprise* would rendezvous with Maven's vessel en route, due to some security concern of Jellico's, and Nechayev was coming with them. Deanna had to be on the bridge.

"Counselor," she murmured.

Ben met her eyes. He seemed to see in them what she hoped he would. "The holodeck?"

"Please."

Thus dispatched, the counselor left the bridge.

"Ensign, set course for the rendezvous point. Warp three."

"Aye, sir."

Deanna watched the shift occur on the viewscreen. She kept checking on Jean-Luc, while on her right Ward kept checking on her and pretending to be involved with his console. She sensed the admiral's arrival and stood as the lift opened, taking a few steps away from her chair so she could turn to watch Nechayev approach.

"We're under way, sir."

Nechayev's smile was all ice and diplomacy. "Excellent. I'm looking forward to meeting the delegation. A moment, Commander?"

Deanna showed her to the ready room. "Something to drink?" She headed for the alcove, noting as she passed the fish tank that Livingston the Third swam erratically around his coral. The automatic feeder must have clogged again.

"Tea would be welcome. English Breakfast." Nechayev's smile had melted. She seated herself and watched Deanna at the replicator. When appropriate, she smiled again and accepted cup and saucer, picking a wafer from the plate Deanna set on the desk between them.

"I hope the quarters you were given are satisfactory."

"I haven't been there yet. Commander, I am concerned about your ability to command in this circumstance. Given the captain's condition, the circumstances by which he was left in such a state, and your own contact with the Asili and what you've learned about them, it occurs to me that you may find objectivity difficult."

"I don't see why I should find it any more difficult than the last crisis we went through." Her statement disturbed the steam rising off her own cup of tea. She sipped, careful though she knew it wouldn't burn.

Nechayev's reaction, seconds of surprise followed by weary agreement, hardly showed on her face. Her trademark tiny smile--all formality, practiced, barely there--was all she allowed. "Still. I would be unsurprised if you requested reassignment for your ship, and Command would likely oblige. One of *Enterprise*'s sister ships could easily be brought in."

Deanna put down her cup and cooly appraised the admiral, hands in her lap.

"This situation is quite different than the last crisis, or any other you've faced as first officer of this ship." Nechayev centered her cup on the saucer she held and flicked her blue eyes up to meet Deanna's gaze. "I had heard rumors of a bond. I even suspected they might be true, based upon my own observations. Now that it's been confirmed, I have to wonder, given the type of injuries Captain Picard sustained, given your connection --"

"If I weren't fit for duty, my own CMO would have put me on medical leave. There is no basis for assuming any Betazoid bond would interfere with duty--if bonds were a distraction, there are hundreds of Vulcans in Starfleet to be wary of, plus all the Betazoid officers."

The admiral lowered her tea, bringing the saucer to rest on the arm of her chair. "All Betazoid officers have bonds?"

"Of one kind or another. Nothing formal or arranged; most develop spontaneously and the effect is negligible. Betazoids are social telepaths, always have been, and Cant had no reason to mention my own bond in her report."

"I've known many Betazoids and I had no idea."

Deanna sighed, noting that her tea no longer steamed. She took another drink of it and shoved the cup aside. "Humans don't go about explaining every nuance of their lives, either. I could list some human traits that confused me, but no human friend had ever gone out of their way to explain."

"In any case, the situation at hand is critical to Federation security. If there is any doubt--"

"Only yours." She was careful to keep her tone neutral, non-confrontational, free of the resentment she felt.

Nechayev stared, and Deanna returned the look until the admiral nodded. "Have you read Admiral Jellico's briefing?"

"Yes. I am curious about the identities of the other aliens in the delegation. They aren't Khevlin, nor does the description he provides match that of any other Randra Alliance species on record. Curious that he doesn't mention the missing people." Deanna tapped out instructions as she spoke and turned the monitor for the admiral's benefit. "The public news net has covered the disappearances. The rank and posting of the two missing officers is listed, but not their last assignment. I'm surprised that more hasn't been made of the fact that a Federation ambassador is among the missing."

Nechayev scanned the article headers quickly, and her lack of surprise led Deanna to believe this was not news to her. "Admiral Jellico already briefed me on his handling of these disappearances. I'm sure you can understand why this hasn't been completely exposed to the public yet. Until the facts are known in full it would be inadvisable to publish any suspicion of Asili involvement in those missing person cases."

"I'd like to know what's being done about it."

"All in good time. There is an investigation under way. When we rendezvous with Jellico, we'll be able to discuss the situation with him directly."

Deanna had more questions but the annunciator interrupted them. "Come in," she said, hoping this would be brief. But Davidson came in looking wary and almost sheepish, meaning something bad, she was sure. "Counselor? How is he?"

Davidson glanced at the admiral, then came to attention, angling himself to more or less include both superior officers. "Disturbed. Furious. I wasn't able to speak with him."

"He's ignoring you again?"

"Yes. Completely." Something in Davidson's expression made her wonder what exactly Jean-Luc was doing; the counselor seemed to want to speak, but the admiral's presence must have inhibited that desire.

Closing her eyes, Deanna focused her attention on her husband and withdrew again quickly. "He's not likely to talk to anyone at the moment. Could you do me a favor and check on Yves?"

"Of course, sir. If you don't mind my asking, could you alert me when the captain is less. . . occupied?"

"I will. I suspect you will find he's altered again. We can see signs of healing," she told the admiral, "and his current agitation suggests to me that he's taken another step toward recovery."

"An angry step," Davidson said, grimacing. "I hope it doesn't mean the opposite. Deterioration is possible, you know."

"I don't believe he's deteriorating. I can sense rational thought processes in him that weren't there when we recovered him from the Asili. I suspect that the partial amnesia has begun to clear; rage such as he's feeling now is reminiscent of his reaction to being assimilated, once he'd recovered physically."

"Well, that's a relief. I'll go down to sickbay and check in with Dr. Mengis, see what the captain's vitals are looking like, then head for the nursery. Is Yves having difficulties related to his father's absence?"

"I suspect so. Thank you, Counselor."

Davidson nodded to her, to the admiral, then left the ready room. Nechayev pondered, and while she was thinking Deanna went to replicate food for the poor fish. Once she unlatched it, the panel over the top of the tank swung upward on hinges, and while she had it open, she pried the feeder from its bracket to have something to remind her it needed fixing. She watched Livingston flutter his fins, gulp bits of food, and search for more.

"What kind is it?"

Deanna glanced over her shoulder. The admiral was looking at the fish. "It's a lion fish."

"Certainly not the same one, for all these years."

"No. But it's become something of a fixture in the ready room."

"Always the same type of fish? Why?"

"The captain likes lion fish." Years before, Deanna had gone to the trouble of finding out more about lion fish, and discovered they were aggressive and had poisonous barbs. It explained why it was the only fish in the tank, and she'd never gotten the courage to ask if its solitary nature were somehow symbolic.

"Returning to the mission," Nechayev said, placing her empty cup on the edge of the desk. "The *Enterprise* will patrol, as previously indicated. The *Santee* will join us. Four other vessels have already been dispatched to the four science stations, to provide protection and evacuation as necessary. The other two vessels to patrol will position themselves so as to provide more coverage of the borders."

"And Admiral Jellico expects Bela to bring out more Asili leaders, for a peace conference between the various clans and the Federation." Deanna retook her seat, put the feeder on the desk, and checked ship's status. The monitor, when not in use, showed an assortment of real-time readouts she'd programmed.

"You sound skeptical."

"It apparently doesn't bother him that they've been eating Starfleet personnel."

"Whether it bothers us or not, we have to keep the larger picture in mind," the admiral said.

"Yes, sir."

She must have been too curt. The admiral eyed her. "You would rather provoke them?"

"I would rather they had never been given ships and allowed to prey on other species. The Asili are under the control of another species, and if not for that, they would already be in Federation space searching for food and we would be at war with them. This endeavor is an exercise in futility--if the Alliance can hold the Asili in check, then we're misinformed. The Asili aren't the most powerful segment of the Alliance's defenses, and. . . ." Deanna stared, not liking the fear and resignation she sensed from the admiral.

"It would be wise if these suppositions did not leave this room," Nechayev said quietly. "As I said, we must keep the larger picture in mind when dealing with the Asili."

"Of course, sir."

Nechayev tilted her head and studied Deanna. Something in her expression reminded Deanna of Ze's predatory gaze. "I would like you to respond to Admiral Jellico's briefing. Share any additional information, or intuition, that you haven't included in your previous reports."

"Before the rendezvous?"

"Yes." Nechayev rose, and Deanna stood with her, coming to attention. The admiral hesitated. "Commander, I'd like to say, now that I've reviewed all the reports and discussed this with Farok, that you've acquitted yourself very well in the course of this crisis. I've found your performance overall since your career change from counselor to be exemplary. As Command has been in the process of selecting captains for new vessels and replacements for retiring officers, I can't help but think you might be among them. I don't normally inform commanders of this consideration, of course, as nothing is set in stone--but given your current circumstance, I thought it might be good to know now."

"I appreciate it, Admiral. Thank you."

Nechayev's wan smile offered cold comfort. "I'm optimistic about your husband's recovery. Please convey my well wishes when you see him again. I'll be in my quarters, Commander. Thank you for the tea."

Deanna watched the admiral's stiff back until the doors closed, blocking her view. Was it as well-meaning as Nechayev pretended? Was it a favor, or a threat? A veiled hint that she'd recommended Deanna for promotion? Had referring to him as 'husband' and not by his rank been indicative of things to come? She should have been suspicious of the admiral's good humor from the beginning. She'd always been aware that Command could rearrange their lives, but assumed that as long as they did their jobs they'd be allowed to continue as they were.

Then again, she might be projecting personal business where it did not overlap. If Command knew that Starfleet might easily be overwhelmed by the Alliance, perhaps the only solution they saw was to build up defensive forces as quietly and quickly as possible. The admiral's hinting might be nothing more than a reflection of that.

This conjecture wasn't helping, and she had more immediate concerns. Giving the admiral time to vacate the bridge, Deanna left the ready room, handing off command to Ward on her way to the lift. She kept her mind clear enough to maneuver through the corridors but followed the pull of her heart toward the source of the desolation washing over her.

But outside the holodeck, she paused. The emotional pain he felt was self-inflicted; the aftermath of being controlled beyond his ability to fight it--this time beyond awareness of it. He would be thinking of everything he had done and said, if he remembered it, and the longer his guilt and fury raged, the more certain of that she became. She remembered counseling him, long hours of asking patient questions, hedging around emotions he denied that were painfully obvious to her. Of all the human coping mechanisms denial was, at least temporarily, the most effective; he took refuge in it more often than most. But he understood now that she knew more than she could ever reveal about anyone. He knew that with her denial was transparent. She couldn't offer him the same objective ear as before.

She laid a hand on the door, sliding her palm down cool metal, hurting for him and with him. He would have to ask for her. She would have to wait.

She turned away, tears momentarily blurring her vision, and when she'd blinked them away she realized Guinan waited a few meters down the corridor, a column of bright green in the drab corridor. When Deanna came to her side, the hostess turned to walk with her, putting an arm around her shoulders. They walked silently to the lift.

"I need you to stay with Yves," Deanna managed somewhere between decks seven and eight. "He's reacting to this. The nursery isn't a good place for him, it's unfair to the other children and to the supervising adults who volunteer."

"I've already arranged for Ten Forward. I was on my way to get him--Counselor Davidson already called to ask me. How are you?"

"I'm going to sickbay. I need a larger dose of inhibitor." Tears still streamed from her eyes; she couldn't help it. The constant onslaught from the holodeck was wearing her down, and still the bond demanded her attention, her heart's ache underlying the torment she couldn't seem to shut out. "I have a report to send. I have a--a--something--"

Guinan halted the lift with a soft command to the computer. The huge sleeves of her tunic made her hug feel like being wrapped in a blanket. "You have a friend."

It tore away the last shred of restraint Deanna had. A few wrenching sobs were all she allowed; she found her footing by drawing upon Guinan's calm, steadied herself, and pulled back.

"Computer, resume. I'll walk you to sickbay." Guinan tucked her hands into her sleeves and faced the door, as relaxed as if she hadn't allowed herself to be used as a handkerchief.

Deanna didn't speak. She wasn't sure she could do so with any composure. When confronted with Dr. Mengis moments later, it took the briefest scrutiny for him to bombard her with worry, and just that much more tipped the scales and brought up more tears in her eyes.

"A full dose," she whispered. "Now."

He almost argued. Her steady stare reinforced the order, however, and he gestured to a nurse and requested a hypo of psylosynine inhibitor.

@@@@@@@@@@

The four aliens on the viewscreen could have been identical statues. They must have been a meter tall, and looked somewhat like the Khevlin, without the elongated skulls. One, the leader apparently, blinked and gestured with its left arm, the dangling black sleeve almost sweeping a second alien aside.

"We do not know them. We do not know you." The alien to his right planted its hand on a console, and the viewscreen went back to stars and a display of the ovoid vessel. Its engine flared vermillion, it spun on its vertical axis, and then blurred into motion and vanished.

Greenman turned to look at deLio. Mendez slumped, arms crossed, and frowned at the shuttle console in front of him.

"It would appear we must continue," Selar said. "At least no one has fired at us."

"It's interesting how the Randra Alliance has been built up in the news net to be an unstoppable force to be reckoned with." Greenman brought up the map they'd been making as they went along. "That's four different species we've spoken to, and none of them seemed to care who we were. Didn't even ask us."

"They are still a formidable alliance." deLio studied the constellations and tried again to remember what he'd seen on the K'korll shuttle's displays. It would probably be impossible to identify anything; they were approaching from the wrong direction, and the stars' positions would not be the same from his perspective. Still, he kept trying. He gave Greenman a heading and she sent the *Pauling* on its way at warp six.

"Mr. Mendez, it is your turn." Selar left her seat and preceded Mendez to the passenger compartment. She had suggested mind melds, to instill in them safeguards against the K'korll, in hopes of protecting them from whatever caused deLio's distress the last time and possibly preventing any deliberate telepathic tampering.

deLio stood up. "Lieutenant, I relieve you."

"Sir--"

"You have been piloting since we left the starbase yesterday. There are bunks below, across from the medical facility. You should rest."

Greenman didn't like it, but she left the cockpit. deLio settled in the pilot's chair and quickly checked status, affirming the board was clear, then watched the viewscreen.

"How long will we be searching?"

zeRia's stealth was impressive. She took a step to bring her even with deLio's seat. He didn't look up. "Until we find what we are looking for."

"Your captain is human. You are willing to risk this much, and to honor him as an elder. He must be worthy--I wish we had met him before we left." She added a low purring undertone, indicative of chastisement.

"He is unwell, otherwise we would not be searching. And Captain Picard does not balk at interspecies differences; he is not human to me. The *Enterprise* is a *dost*."

zeRia's red eyes narrowed. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, waiting for a rebuttal.

"May I sit?" She fluttered sharp-nailed fingers at Mendez' vacant seat.

"Yes." He reached for a set of controls on his far left and locked out the panels in front of the chair as she sat down. "I regret the necessity of this journey. If I had done my duty more effectively, the captain would not need help."

"It was your fault?" Another purr, beneath sharp consonants. deLio had missed the nuances of his own language; even disapproval sounded good to him. The other L'norim officers aboard the *Enterprise* spoke Standard, striving to improve their skills as was appropriate for the duration of their service. Standard lacked layers of meaning, functional as it was.

"It was my responsibility to ensure his safety. It is my function aboard the ship." It felt strange, engaging the extra vocal cords and using his uppermost cheek sacs to force air along them for the proper whirring of penitence and pitch of determination.

"Lead security officer," zeRia said. "A prominent position. Who are your superiors?" The question ended with the higher pitch of a request for intimate details. With no cheek sacs, the *ghifirim* used pitch and volume to vibrate the secondary vocal cords. The result was shrill, less resonant enunciation.

"Captain Picard and Commander Troi. The captain is older than most other humans of his rank, and is accorded much respect for his years of service. The commander is his *ghifirim.*" With no word for 'wife' in L'norim vocabulary, and zeRia's ignorance of Standard, no other term would do.

zeRia voiced only a very low, throbbing purr when he did not continue.

"They do not mate as we do, in fours. She is also *rehoh* and *mareh* to him. She is all he will require. The commander is also Betazoid."

"What is Bet - a - zoid?"

"They appear human, but are telepathic. They are from a world called Betazed."

"Not human, but mated with one. Is that mmm-hmm possible?" Extreme curiosity, expressed by humming. zeRia's slit-pupils dilated.

"For them. They also mate in twos. Most Federation species do. There are exceptions."

"The commander will be *rezza'ai*?"

The thought excited deLio--ascertaining the existence of a *rezza'ai* indicated zeRia already thought ahead to children, which meant she remained willing to finalizing their arrangement, which meant she thought this expedition would be a success. She could only decide this if she meant to help; in the most important matters, L'norim did not move tentatively.

"She already is," deLio piped in his highest vibrato, thinking of the commander as he'd seen her in Ten Forward at a child's birthday party, surrounded by the complement of the ship's children as she passed out hats.

zeRia hummed, vibrating the loose skin under her jaw. Very promising.

deLio brought up the star map again, rotated it slowly, and searched for patterns he recognized.

@@@@@@@@@@

"This--is--madness," Picard exclaimed, his statement punctuated by his footsteps as he went up the steps. Sweaty, exhausted and thirsty, he wanted only to escape his persistent hallucination.

"Jean-Luc!"

Picard reached the porch steps and faced his pursuer. "I asked you to leave me alone."

"I can't. I'm supposed to help you. Why don't you want me to help you?" Robert came to a stop at arm's length and waited, pieces of the swan under his boots. "Isn't that what you wanted when you came home? It's why you came home the last time. Jean-Luc finally needed his family's help."

"Get off that. Over there."

Robert sidled in the direction indicated and stood on the grass. "You aren't completely recovered, you know."

"What are you?"

"What I am isn't important. What you remember is." Robert gestured around them. "You can't stay here forever. There are things you need to do. Things you must remember before you go back."

"I remember everything now. I don't need you."

"You know who left me here. You're no longer under external influence. If you would focus on remembering and accept my help, you would know why you needed me."

"External influence," Picard echoed, considering.

"Stubborn as ever," Robert exclaimed, shaking his head. "You need my help. It isn't over yet. The K'korll are trying to help you, brother."

"This is all very interesting, it might even be true, but I don't care. I'm tired of hallucinating today." Picard grabbed the doorknob.

"She needs you. She needs the information I can give you."

That made him stop. He shook his head. "If you won't tell me exactly what you are--"

"I'm here to help. That's all you need to know."

Picard opened the door and slammed it behind him, storming through to the kitchen. "Water, cold," he shouted at the replicator. By the time he snatched the glass off the grid, Robert had joined him.

"They saved your life. They gave me to you -- went to a lot of trouble to do it."

"I didn't ask for their interference!" Picard slammed the water down untouched, slopping it on the counter.

Robert lost all semblance of emotion, and with it went any illusion that this was really his brother. Now he appeared to be almost Vulcan-impassive. "They only knew you would die--they healed you, then they learned how repellant assimilation was and how abhorrent such invasions are to you, and it -- "

"They didn't learn enough, because here you are!" He fled from the apparition. Outside the house, he noted the position of the sun--did holodeck time coincide with France, or ship's time? He supposed the latter. Afternoon, then. He felt such weariness that he would have guessed evening.

The pieces of the swan drew his attention. Kneeling, he gathered them up carefully, even the smallest slivers. Just a hologram, he knew, but it was something to do. Something he would have done. At least he had that much reality left to him--he could remain faithful to himself and all that mattered to him. Memories of the dream of the swan in the surf haunted him.

In the house, he deposited the pieces on the dining room table. The replicator provided glue at his command. This would be his task. If the hallucinations returned, he would ignore them, and use this to focus his attention elsewhere. Sane people did not converse with delusions.

He took time to spread the pieces out and study the scope of work. Most of the larger pieces were obvious about how they belonged together, but smaller bits had to be tried in the various locations to find the right fit.

He ignored the sound of the door and the footsteps at first, but when he looked up he found that the counselor had returned. Another hallucination? He'd seen the counselor earlier and ignored him until he left. But Davidson hadn't disappeared like the other hallucinations; he'd walked off the property, presumably calling for the arch once out of sight.

Davidson studied the pieces of glass. "That's the piece that was broken outside, isn't it?"

"Yes." Picard fitted two smaller pieces together and reached for the tube of glue.

"May I sit?"

Picard shrugged and indicated the chair opposite with a nod.

@@@@@@@@@@@@

Deanna almost asked for a stimulant, but knew what would happen. She couldn't afford to be taken off duty. Thanking the doctor for the inhibitor, she left sickbay and the worried eyes of Dr. Mengis, hurrying back to the bridge.

The inhibitor didn't counter all the anxiety, however. Somehow she still "heard" a thread of Jean-Luc's emotions, buzzing in the distance. As she left the lift she shook off brief disorientation that left her dizzy, moving down to the ready room.

The doors shut out any noise from the bridge. The deadness of her empathy combined with the quiet of the room was too much for her. "Computer--access musical library, play. . . instrumentals, soft soothing ones, from either Terran or Betazoid files." A ripple of chimes began one of the hundreds of traditional Betazoid wedding songs. "Anything not related to ceremonies," she added quickly. The computer switched to something so soft it took her a moment to recognize woodwinds, and further, the croon of an oboe.

She went to the desk to compose her missive to Jellico. Starting with a basic list, she worked through the events beginning at Khevlin, a hand over her abdomen where the baby turned and kicked. Pausing to get something to eat was a direct result of Amy making herself known.

An hour later, Deanna leaned back, closing her eyes. There were so many details. They would be at the rendezvous by beta shift, with a six hour wait for the slow Asili vessel to reach them, but Jellico might not be awake then; the report should be finished and sent long before to give him time to review it. But her eyes stung, her back throbbed, and Amy fluttered again, reminding her of her other child, her son whose anger and frustration earlier had further muddled her senses. Which only reminded her again of her husband.

No. She couldn't think of him yet.

She fled into meditation, using an old Betazoid chant to pull her back from rational thought. Gone were the days of only reaching the second level; after years of practice, she could finally sink to the fifth. But it was a slippery slope, as for some reason she couldn't find the grounding she had had before. The baby was with her, more perceptible now that externals and her own thoughts were set aside.

A pinching of her arm startled her out of a surprisingly-deep trance. She blinked up at Ward, who was pulling away but still showed distress in his blue eyes.

"You didn't respond to the page."

She realized then what had just happened. She tried to keep her voice steady. "I'm sorry, what is it?"

"We've reached the rendezvous coordinates. That's all."

Deanna winced. All that time, gone. "Sit down, Ward."

He obeyed, now more concerned--at least the inhibitor seemed to be holding up. "Is everything all right?"

"No, but I'll manage. How is Weber doing?" Weber, one of deLio's security officers, had been rotated to bridge duty on alpha shift, based on deLio's recommendations. Ward had found a message from their security chief in his daily mail; a copy had gone to Deanna as well. deLio hadn't left without seeing to shift coverage.

"He's filled in on gamma shift before, so he's familiar enough with bridge operations. His relief is on--it's beta shift. You should be off duty as well."

"I have a few more things to take care of, and I'll be gone."

Ward pressed his lips together sternly. "I think you should go now."

"The admiral wants this report. I'll go when it's finished."

"If you insist. I'll be on the bridge." He marched stiffly from the ready room, leaving her to deduce that he would be there until she left.

She completed the report, whether it was as thorough as Nechayev wanted or not, in ten minutes. She took another few minutes to check long-range scans for any sign of the *Santee* and the Asili vessel. No sign of them yet.

"Troi to Guinan."

"Yes, Commander?"

"I'm sorry it's taking me so long to get home. I'm even sorrier to impose further, but I've run into an unusual difficulty--I'll explain in detail when I get there." She remembered suddenly a resolution she'd made to keep up with messages, and that she hadn't looked at them in two days. "How is he?"

"We had a little disagreement about what we wanted for dinner, but he's settled down. He's built himself a fort in a corner of his room and started 'bombing' Fidele with blocks. Not ideal, but better than arguing."

"I'm going to check messages and eat something, then I'll be on my way. Thank you, Guinan."

"No problem. See you soon."

Deanna headed for the replicator. "Computer, are there any new messages for myself or the captain?"

"There are twenty-seven messages for Captain Picard and sixteen messages for Commander Troi."

"Please list origin of each."

She listened to the list as she returned to the desk, plate and beverage in her hands. While eating she got through half of her own messages, made two replies, and saved the rest for tomorrow. Then the captain's list started. She listened to none of the messages, intending to send brief messages to the few people she knew to let them know there would be a delayed response, until the computer announced a text message from the vineyard. Henri sent reports every three months, but she knew Jean-Luc had received one before their arrival at Khevil. This must be an emergency of some sort. Thinking of Marie, she instructed the computer to display the message.

*'Gilles Boudeau wishes to purchase the seven acres of the Muscat hybrid we planted twelve years ago. Since the vines have not produced well, I told him I would ask if you are interested in selling them.'*

That wasn't so much of an emergency, after all. At first she was relieved. Then it occurred to her to count the years, and she realized that the grapes in question had been planted by Robert before his death, that the hybrid had been a pet project of his, intended to establish the Picard winery as an innovator in the wine industry.

Tears came before she could stop them. A sob escaped; she leaned forward, breathing through her mouth, gripping the edge of the desk. She might have to make these decisions. The vineyard, the ship, the children, her husband. The Fifth House. Her mother. All the responsibilities, present and future, represented in this message that only reminded her of the burdens she'd taken on.

When she'd recovered enough, she instructed Henri to decline the offer and saved the rest of the messages for later. She came out of the ready room to find Ward still waiting, talking to his relief, Lieutenant Krevek. He nodded to Krevek and went with her to the lift.

"It's about time," he said, once the doors closed.

"I had some personal business I didn't anticipate. The vineyard."

Ward raised his eyebrows. "Everything all right?"

"Yes. Just another offer made on some of the property. We have covetous neighbors."

"It's a beautiful piece of land. I can see why you'd want to hold on to it." Ward had seen it on the holodeck, at Yves' first birthday party.

"Yes."

He walked her all the way to her door before bidding her good-night and heading back to the lift. "Mother hen," she muttered, entering her quarters.

"Mama!" Yves ran over and grabbed her knees in a tight hug. "Come pway!"

"You look like you've had fun." She laughed; his cheeks had blue dots on them, and his nose was painted red. "And look, you've turned my knees all colors."

He put his hand to his mouth, rubbing at the smears with his fingers. "I sowwy."

"That's all right. Go wash your face." She waited for him to run to his bathroom to face Guinan, who had a small red hand print on each cheek and green stripes across her forehead. "I missed the fun."

"It's not too late. I'm sure he'd be happy to oblige." Guinan gestured toward the table and chairs. "Anything new?"

"Funny you should ask. I have a complication --you know I meditate each day. I've started to drift too much."

Guinan raised a brow at her.

"There's a name for it in Betazoid. As the unborn child develops, the maternal bond begins to form. Sometimes the mother, while in a meditative state or while sleeping, becomes. . . 'trapped' is too strong a word. She can lose herself in the pre-conscious state of the fetus." Deanna sat at the table and helped Guinan cap the containers of paint. "I need to meditate, especially now, but I can't do it when there are other things I need to be mindful of, like Yves, or the bridge."

"You need someone to spot you," Guinan said. "I can move in for a while. At least you would be able to meditate at night, that way."

"Thank you. I appreciate this, Guinan."

Yves returned, proud of himself--he did get his face mostly clean, though the front of his shirt showed signs of being used as a towel. Fidele came out with him. The dog wagged its tail, unperturbed by the green, red and yellow handprints covering his body.

"Did you get any paint on the paper, Yves?"

"I made a sip," he announced, running to where large sheets of paper had been spread on the floor and pointing at one. It did look remotely like a ship, if starships had five nacelles at random angles from the main hull and little blue windows against a red-yellow hull.

"Fidele needs a sonic shower." Deanna gestured at the dog and pointed at her bedroom door. "You and Guinan can hang up the pictures while I go do that."

She followed the dog through to the bathroom, opening the stall for him and reaching for the shower control. Fidele turned round in a circle, shaking off paint bits, and waited for her to turn off the sonics before stepping out.

"I am curious," the dog said, tail wagging lazily. "I have not yet seen Captain Picard. Is there something wrong?"

"He isn't well, Fidele. I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't say anything to Yves about that--leave explanations to me."

"As you wish, Commander." The dog trotted from the room, returning to Yves' side with a bark.

Deanna came out as Guinan finished tacking up the last corner of the second picture. "There we are. I think it's pajama time now. I'm going to get mine--when I get back we'll read a story," Guinan said.

"Papa weed a stowwy," Yves exclaimed. "He aways weeds a stowwy."

Guinan gave Deanna a serious look and headed for the door, painted face still intact. "See you in a minute."

"Yves," Deanna said, "I'm afraid Papa won't be home tonight."

Yves turned from his inspection of the bright paintings hung on the wall, one of them taped over a framed picture, and put one hand behind his head to scratch in an exaggerated way.

"He's not feeling well enough yet."

"Is Papa wiv doctoe?"

"The doctor is taking care of him."

"I need my 'jammas," he announced, running for his room. Fidele went with him.

Deanna sighed. What else had she expected? She went after them, hoping for a quick pajama decision and a short bedtime story.

@@@@@@@@@@

Davidson kept at Picard, asking questions about what he remembered, until he became frustrated and short. The counselor studied him for a few silent minutes, then asked, "Why did you invite me to sit down?"

"It would have been short-sighted of me not to."

"That's interesting." Davidson had his chair turned, an elbow propped on a corner of the dining room table. "Not so long ago you were resistant to the idea of counseling. What about the mission?"

"It's out of my hands." The neck of the swan didn't fit on the body yet. Some small bit remained missing; none of the pieces he had fit in that spot, and he'd tried each of them. He'd have to look for it.

"The mission is out of your hands," Davidson echoed.

"Is there something wrong with your hearing?"

"Do you remember insisting that regardless of your condition you should have been able to--"

"I don't want to talk about that!" He did remember, too well, but thinking of it might bring back the hallucinations.

Another pause, and again, another subject change. "What about Counselor Cant?"

"The Betazoid counselor Farok sent in. What about her? The investigation is over."

"Commander Troi filed a complaint. Apparently, Cant used her telepathy while talking to you."

Picard frowned. "Yes, I believe she did. She didn't get far. How did Deanna know about that?"

"Cant lied to her about it."

He fitted a slender piece along the curve of a wing and put pressure on it while the glue set. Davidson waited. "Do I appear sane?" Picard asked.

"You've been through a lot of trauma. You're still healing."

"Leave it to a counselor to give a non-answer. More tea?"

"No, thanks. I'd think you would know by now that psychology isn't an exact science, and you probably also have a good idea of where you're at. You seem to remember much more than you did, and you're aware of recent occurrences and their import." Davidson smiled thinly. "How do you feel about the decisions you've made in the past week?"

Picard stared at him. This was accomplishing nothing other than agitating him; the counselor was only interested in his condition, and anything he told Davidson might not make it back to Deanna, who did need to know -- something. What had been a strange half-conscious anxiety came to the forefront. Something urgent. Something about the K'korll and the Asili.

"It's what I was trying to tell you," Robert said.

Picard jumped, almost spreading pieces of glass far and wide. He stopped the head and part of a wing before it reached the table's edge and shot a glance toward the kitchen, noting that the hallucination stood at his right shoulder.

"Captain?"

"Nothing. Thought I heard something."

"Jean-Luc," Robert muttered. "Please. It's important--they wouldn't have gone to the trouble if it weren't."

"I feel--" Picard paused again. "Where is Deanna?"

"It's late afternoon. I suppose she must be on the bridge, about to end her shift. Did you wish to speak with her?" There was an odd carefulness to the counselor's question.

"Speak to her," Robert exclaimed. "Tell the counselor you have to see her."

"Not yet."

Davidson's expression didn't change. "You don't want to see her?"

Picard stopped his hands before they formed fists, flattened them on the table, held his breath, then exhaled slowly, determined to put aside memories of all the ways he had wounded her lately before he spoke.

"I think it would be better for her."

Davidson's eyes widened. He leaned forward, on the verge of speaking, but didn't at first; he seemed to be considering his response very carefully. "It would be good for her to see how well you are doing."

Picard stiffened at the careful comment. "Would it?"

"This has been difficult for all of us, but for her most of all. If a short visit to show her how well you are doing--"

"Are you pushing me to this because you're worried about her, or me?"

"I am the ship's counselor. I have a responsibility to both of you. I think it would be in both your best interests if you reassured each other."

"She's better off without me. She doesn't need me." She didn't need him while he doubted his own sanity and hallucinated, certainly. Shaking his head, he got up, intending to find that other piece.

"Captain, where are you going?"

"I'm done. I'm tired. Please leave."

"Captain--"

Picard ignored the counselor's calls and left the room. It occurred to him that the counselor might follow him outside, so he went upstairs. Davidson could take the hint, he hoped.

He found the master bedroom had been redecorated in rich greens with a hint of gold edging the curtains. He remembered Deanna studying swatches after hiring a woman from the village to do the work. This program must have been updated to reflect the change, as they hadn't been home since. Suddenly it struck him -- the reason they kept this program updated, the meticulous details down to the taste of the grapes: the children. This was where his children would learn what home was like. He remembered also another program featuring the Fifth House, lavishly sponsored by Lwaxana, who had volunteered Homn to trudge around recording everything in and around it.

He found the first child's bedroom full of the same sorts of toys as Yves' room had been. The next room, once Robert's bedroom, then later an upstairs study, had become a nursery.

In the hall, Picard swayed, unable to stop remembering what they had planned, compromises made, holidays and leave schedules and negotiations over visits to Betazed versus trips to Earth. And the first time he had brought her to this house, the pain of missing family, the pleasure of having her with him, the hope for the future.

Here was his future. Relieved of duty, displaced by his wife, and likely to be removed from the ship. How could he accept it?

"Just talk to her." Robert stood in the bedroom door, arms crossed. "I won't be here long."

"I almost preferred the hallucinations who didn't talk." Picard headed for the stairs.

"Why won't you trust me?"

*Because you're not real. *He hurried down and found the counselor had vacated the holodeck. Good.

"They intend to help in the only way they could." Robert came from the living room, which sent Picard on the retreat toward the back door.

He hit the bottom step running. Guessing where the broken pieces had been, he dropped to his knees and ran his fingers through the grass, searching for missing shards of glass.

"Come on, brother."

One piece, hardly more than a splinter. He plucked it from the dirt and dropped it in his palm, blowing soil away.

"Jean-Luc?"

Picard closed his eyes. Seeking refuge in silence, he found something unexpected. He remembered being able to 'hear' Deanna in his own limited fashion; now that he attempted a moment of meditation to find peace, he found he could detect her, though with less acuity than before. The realization that she could sense this connection made him recoil from contacting her. Closing his hand until the splinter of glass poked him, he spent a few moments hating the holodeck and wishing for reality, using the irrational anger as a distraction so he could ignore the illusion of his brother calling his name.

He leaped up. Robert watched him still, and at his side, a ghost of a dark alien, hovering over the grass. When Picard could breath evenly again, he headed for the house, his imaginary escort following.

@@@@@@@@@@

"I won't force him to talk to me," Deanna exclaimed.

Davidson hurried to keep up with her. "The only reason he's doing this is to protect you."

"Let him."

"You have the ability to reassure him and put an end to this self-imposed suffering he's going through." Davidson's voice throbbed as he kept pace, step for step.

"Not--true," she replied in time with her footfalls. "I have to get home."

"He thinks he's protecting you. Right now he can only think about how terrible he was to you. Doesn't want to talk about anything, gets impatient with my questions. You disillusion him, he'll start dealing with this."

Deanna smirked, tossing her head. Her ponytail brushed across her shoulders. "You think so."

"Fine. I bow to your greater experience, Commander. What do you suggest?"

She walked slower, giving in--he wasn't going to let her get away. "Sarcasm isn't like you, Ben," she said, nodding to a lieutenant passing them while going the other direction. "There's nothing magic about it. He'll get through it when he wants to."

"Then what good am I? Why do you even bother having a ship's counselor? You want me to do my duty. I tell you my recommendations, and you dismiss them!"

She counted ten slow breaths. "You're right. I'm sorry." She stopped walking and met Davidson's gaze. "What would you like me to do?"

"I'd like you to go to the holodeck and try to reach him. Lecture him. Badger him. Whatever it takes to wake him up to the fact that he didn't really damage you."

"Are you sure I'm not damaged?"

"Not by him. It's always been what's done to him that damages you."

He was being so quiet about it, yet so matter-of-fact. Careful but, knowing she didn't respond well to 'counselor's sympathy,' straightforward. She slowed with him, idling along the narrow corridor, thinking how far he'd come since his promotion to ship's counselor and how deftly he'd maneuvered her. Of course it wasn't just the captain he'd be worried about. Her sudden decision not to visit Jean-Luc, as she'd been so determined to do before, must have alarmed Ben.

"He's improved that much? You don't think my presence would cause more harm than good?"

"Those fits of anger are gone. The amnesia is gone--now when he won't talk about something it's obvious that he's simply avoiding the subject. And, he remembers Cant's intrusion."

"Interesting." She stopped outside her door. "I'll go after I check on Yves."

"I'd appreciate it if you'd give me a call afterward. Just let me know how it went? How you handle it?"

"I'll call you in the morning."

Her quarters were quiet. She peered in Yves' room and was surprised by his absence; in the nursery, now Guinan's temporary bedroom, she found Guinan sitting in the rocking chair with Yves in her lap. While she rocked gently Yves slept, and Guinan nodded to Deanna. Fidele sat at Guinan's feet. Obviously, when she'd gone to engineering to chastise Geordi for pulling an unnecessary double shift, she hadn't been missed much.

Deanna left without a word and went to the holodeck. The arch placed her on the lawn outside Chateau Picard. The sun was setting over the trees. On the walk up to the door, she felt something through the thin sole of her shoe and found a piece of something white. Confused, she plucked it from the dirt. Why would this program include a shard of glass? Then she recognized it as the head of the ceramic swan and couldn't breathe. It's fake, this is the holodeck, she told herself, turning it over in her fingers.

The door slammed. She jumped, suddenly afraid and unable to control her emotions well enough to avoid 'blinding' her empathy--of course, the dose of inhibitor hadn't worn off completely, so any interference blocked her. Jean-Luc came out as far as the top step. Dismay seemed his predominant reaction to her presence. He stared at her, the furrows in his brow clearly visible even from where she stood. Then he took one step down, and another. Sweat under his arms stained his white shirt, and his face was flushed. Was it exertion or fever?

Swallowing, she approached, meeting him at the bottom of the steps. "How are you?" she managed, amazed at the level of control she actually had over her voice.

He held himself so rigidly it reminded her of the captain she'd known more than a decade ago. "Commander."

"Captain," she replied automatically.

"I'm surprised to see you here." He stepped past her and meandered down the sidewalk, looking at the ground. "Don't you have a ship to run?"

"Not on a continuous basis. I am allowed some time off, once in a while."

He seemed to be looking for something. When he stopped in approximately the same spot she'd found the glass, she realized what. "How are you?" she asked.

"You can see how I am. Sense it too, I imagine. Why are you here?"

"You couldn't guess why I would come to see my husband?"

"Is there a specific purpose for this visit, Commander?" Odd, that he would resort to rank even though she wore a loose gray tunic over her uniform pants. He wouldn't look at her; he seemed completely occupied by his search through the grass. Using it as a distraction, she guessed, from the determined way he forced himself to the task. She approached slowly, still nervous and wondering how the swan had been broken. While he knelt and prodded the grass at the edges of the sidewalk with his fingertips, she touched the back of his neck. Unpremeditated, but once her fingers were there, she let them stay, sliding down the vertebrae, tracing each one.

"I wanted to--"

He leaped up and spun about so quickly that she stumbled backward, gasping, losing her balance at the edge of the sidewalk when her foot missed the pavement. Stumbling, she landed hard on the ground, most of her weight falling on her right hip. One hand went to her abdomen automatically.

He was there in an instant, but she flinched from him--until she met his eyes seconds later, and realized she had overreacted again. He pulled back before his hands reached hers. "It's not safe," he exclaimed. "You shouldn't be here!"

Deanna held out her hand. He stood over her, then took it and helped her up. He let go at once and fled to the front door.

"Jean-Luc! Wait," she called. He had the door open, but hesitated with one foot on the threshold. "We need to talk."

"You aren't the counselor." He glanced at her, his hand tightening on the doorknob.

"I love you."

It seemed an ineffective and inadequate thing to say, especially when it came out with more desperation than assurance. She was certain it would backfire and he'd slam the door behind him. But he let the doorknob go, turning around, still not looking at her.

"I'm--" He paused, gazing about at the yard and stepping to the railing. "I'm no longer certain of where I am."

"Computer, save program with added parameters under next consecutive filename. End program." She closed her eyes, silently counted to five, and felt the glass piece vanish from her hand, where she'd kept it hidden from him. When she looked, she stood in the holodeck surrounded by the yellow grid. Jean-Luc stood with her, just out of reach.

"That wasn't necessary." But he felt better now; some small doubt he'd felt had gone.

"Tell me why you won't look at me."

He did look, but only briefly. "You should go."

"Not before you tell me what you're thinking." She paced in a slow circle around him, arms crossed. "How your memory has recovered. How you're feeling."

"You should go. Yves needs you."

She stared at his back. Shoulders hunched, he was determined to push her away, close her out, and if he no longer suffered amnesia, she could only surmise that it meant he wanted to protect her.

"Well, that's true. But I need you."

"Not really."

Deanna put her hands on his back, sliding her arms around him only when he didn't move. "We all need you. It's why I know you're going to recover. You know we need you."

"How can you know that?" he murmured, stiff in her embrace but letting her hold him. "What if I never recover completely?"

"You always do."

"You think I'm completely recovered from the Borg, then?" Dark humor in his tone spoke volumes about how far he'd come.

"You recover enough. You've made great progress this time, as well. Though you had a lot of help from the K'korll."

He pried her hands apart, stepped out of her embrace, and strode to a wall, pacing along it like a caged animal. The sudden agitation disturbed her. "Stop it," he muttered. "Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Not--" He glanced at her, as if he'd forgotten her presence.

"How did the swan get broken? I found the head in the grass."

"Threw it." He turned to face her directly. Something in his demeanor changed--he hesitated, eyes burning with determination. "But it wasn't real. You're real."

"I believe so, yes."

He rushed to her and caught her in his arms. She stiffened slightly at the suddenness of it; he didn't seem to notice. "I'm not all right, Dee," he whispered, burying his face in her hair. "I can't make them go away."

He had to be hallucinating again. "It's all right. They'll go away. You'll get better." If only she could have kept uncertainty from creeping into her words, turning the reassurance into a wobbling testimony to her own fears.

"I couldn't remember--I did finally -- Cygne," he gasped. "Please. . . go. . . ."

The change began as he spoke the nickname--she could sense it, sharp as the snap of a string. He backed away from her, and she found herself looking into the eyes of a stranger wearing Jean-Luc's body. He was still there, but buried deep and hopefully unaware. The pain began anew in her chest. A sob wrenched itself from her despite her efforts to maintain control.

It had been so long since she had met an actual case of dissociative identity disorder. She had met one long ago as an intern. No wonder it had taken her this long to recognize his difficulty. Had the earlier schism she'd sensed in him been the beginnings of this? Since the disorder developed most often as a result of long term trauma that began in childhood, this was a first. It could only be artificially-induced, she guessed, since any serious trauma would probably follow a more predictable pattern of symptoms.

As he looked down at himself and raised his hands, detached, clinical curiosity all that she could sense, she thought this was not simply another human identity--she'd never read of any case where someone so afflicted manifested an entirely alien personality.

"Who are you?"

He blinked. "You know."

"I sense the difference."

"Then we were correct."

"'We?' I only sense one of you."

"We are not surprised. We are as one." He studied the floor of the holodeck as if he'd never seen it before. "We are what remains of the three who undertook Picard's healing. When deLio removed him from our care, we poured ourselves into this vessel and went with him, severing ourselves from our bodies. It was necessary. Please do not feel alarm. We will not remain longer than necessary. Picard has nearly recovered. There is only a message to be delivered, now."

"The word you chose as a trigger--why that one?"

His facial expression didn't change, though she sensed muted regret. "He regarded you as most important, for a number of reasons. We understood that if anyone would be able to discern that our message is true and act, it would be you. We had to use your identity as his wife as the trigger--we knew the Sisnok would attempt their usual manipulation of a captured Starfleet officer, and our presence is meant to counter and nullify this attempt. We have succeeded, though it was difficult. Picard is not convinced we are helping."

"He wouldn't be." Deanna paused, studying the obvious mismatch of alien mind and human body resulting in stiff posturing, and came to a conclusion. "Computer, re-create briefing room two-B."

His surprise flickered briefly. He took a chair at the head of the table, moving slowly as if not sure how. "This is a unique tool, this holodeck. We do not possess such a thing."

"I imagine verbal communication is also a new thing. Would you mind if I called my officers to join us?"

"Picard would trust you to do as you felt necessary." His hands lay on his thighs, palms up, fingers curled. His elbows stuck out at an awkward angle.

Deanna hoped the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach wasn't there to stay. "Computer, page the following officers and request that they report to holodeck two. Admiral Nechayev, Counselor Davidson, Doctor Mengis, Lieutenant-Commander Carlisle. . . ."

@@@@@@@@@@

"Mr. deLio!"

deLio leaped to his feet from the chair he'd slumped into to take a 'hunter's nap,' something L'norim did when they needed rest but couldn't afford to sleep. He pushed past the others to the cockpit of the *Pauling.*

Natalia, after a few hours of sleep, had returned to the helm and suggested rest for the others. She had a two-dimensional sector map on the main viewer when deLio, followed in quick succession by Mendez and zeRia, got there. She pointed at the oblong outline of something that dwarfed their ship.

"Warp six," he snapped, taking a seat at tactical.

"We're already at warp seven," Natalia exclaimed, making adjustments on her board. "I increased when the ship altered course to follow us."

"It's larger than anything the Federation has, short of a starbase," Mendez reported.

"You should have called me," deLio said. "Evasive maneuvers."

"We're heading for a solar system we passed -- the one with the asteroid belts."

"They're going to catch us," Mendez exclaimed. "They've just increased to point oh two warp factors beyond our current velocity."

deLio returned the screen to a forward view. On a smaller screen, he observed the computer's rendering of the vessel in pursuit. "Can we go any faster?"

"Trying." Natalia worked earnestly. deLio could smell the fear in the air; everyone else had gathered just outside the cockpit and listened to their fate being decided by warp factors. "Seven point four. Point five."

"They're matching it and increasing by another point oh two. We need a few Sovereign-class escort ships," Mendez said. "Maybe a couple of Akiras to even the odds. That thing's got weapons you don't want to know about." Which was not an acceptable answer from a subordinate, but deLio didn't address it.

zeRia hissed, raised her head as if able to scent the enemy, and leaned over deLio's shoulder. "*Sra na fel*," she whispered.

"Not compatible with Starfleet directives," deLio replied. "Not now."

"What?" Natalia glanced at them, her face a pattern of colored light thrown across her skin by the control panels she leaned over.

At that moment, the entire ship shuddered and the lights dimmed. "It's a dampening field of some kind," Mendez exclaimed, frowning at the lack of response of the sensors. deLio's readouts had disappeared as well and experimental taps of his fingers did nothing. "Warp engine just went offline. The last energy readouts I got indicated a surge of power--I'm guessing we're going to be pulled in by tractor beams or blown into atoms."

"Reroute power from batteries? Impulse? Shields?" deLio reached for the manual control switch under the edge of the tactical console. No result.

Natalia's shaking head indicated she'd had the same problem. Then her eyes fixed on the viewscreen and her chin dropped. deLio followed her gaze.

They were indeed being pulled inside the other vessel, and judging from the apparent movement of stars they were still traveling at warp. Somehow they'd been pulled into the larger vessel's warp envelope, disabled, and now rose into the belly of what appeared to be a cargo hold. The multi-layered structure of the hull, as viewed on the main screen, indicated a ship larger than any deLio had ever seen before. As they cleared it, they rose past a few smaller vessels whose size was impossible to gauge. Then they traveled sideways, to starboard, and seemed to be turning.

They passed an Intrepid-class vessel moored between two arms and held fast by glistening curtains of tractor beams, and perspective could be gained.

"Our new objective," deLio announced, turning to look at his companions, "is to return to the Federation by any means. Barring this, to send a message. Are we all clear on this point?"

"Yes, sir," Natalia said. A scattered echo of assent from the others followed. No one seemed particularly enthusiastic.

@@@@@@@@@@

Admiral Nechayev was the last to arrive. Dr. Mengis had his tricorder running; the entities hadn't flinched from him when the doctor affixed neocortical monitors to the captain's head. Ward kept shooting her wild looks, probably looking for reassurance in her demeanor. The counselor did the same but seemed more fascinated by the captain than worried. Geordi kept his folded hands on the table and his eyes down. In the absence of deLio and Lana'hai, Lieutenant Rangel had stepped up to head the security department, and perched on the edge of his seat, trying to contain his anxiety and eagerness to prove himself in his new role.

With the inhibitor now almost completely worn off, Deanna could sense more from all of them. Confusion, weariness, irritation, and trepidation at what was coming next, rising from the group to descend on her weary head. At least Jean-Luc was there, if unconscious. If the entities would go away once their message was delivered, if Jean-Luc were sane again afterward. . . .

The holodeck doors parted the wall. Nechayev swept into the room, glanced around, and pursed her lips. "Commander?" she exclaimed over the sigh of closing doors.

"My apologies for the hour," Deanna said, putting her hands behind her back. "But we have guests of whom we were not aware, and they have a message for us."

Nechayev took the chair between Ward and the captain, to Ward's dismay. "I see no one new."

"The K'korll took advantage of a facet of human psychology to send three representatives." She paused while all but the captain stared up at her in alarm. "It's very likely the reason for all the confusing symptoms the captain has experienced--the K'korll put up defenses against the Sisnok's influence, otherwise the Sisnok may have done more harm. The conflict between the Sisnok's programming and the K'korll's defenses has resulted in a confusing and asymptomatic series of reactions. You've probably never heard of dissociative identity disorder."

She made it almost a question. Davidson nodded. "I've read about it. Hardly ever happens any more--it's a defense mechanism, seen in individuals subjected to repeated abuse from childhood. Intense trauma creates a need to escape, which the subject can't manage due to his or her dependance upon the perpetrator, so the victim creates alternate identities to take the pain while the core identity retreats."

"That's the usual course of it, yes. Dissociation is a normal part of any human's psyche--losing track of time, losing memory of part of the walk home because it's so routine and unremarkable, those sorts of things. The K'korll found a way to take advantage of this." She paced to the captain and put a hand on his shoulder. "When Mr. deLio removed him before he could be completely healed, the K'korll had to resort to drastic measures--the three who embedded themselves in his mind will cease to exist once they've delivered the message they carry. Which is why I've asked you all here."

"You're saying he forgot things repeatedly because the K'korll--or the others--did it on purpose?" Davidson asked.

"It was necessary that the Sisnok did not know that which we forced Picard to forget," the captain said, deadpan and almost slurring. "It was necessary to protect the trigger that would release us to deliver the message. It was also our way of demonstrating that something was amiss indirectly, in a way that the Sisnok would not predict. They have been practicing on humans."

The admiral stood up, gesturing toward the door. "Commander, a moment?"

Deanna had to take a moment to recover from surprise. "We'll be back," she told the entities. Glancing at Davidson, she rose and followed the admiral into the corridor.

" I must insist that the other officers be dismissed," Nechayev exclaimed. "The details of this should remain classified."

"Why? Are you afraid the rest of the fleet will rebel if they find out ships have been disappearing into Alliance space? Especially if they know they might be eaten, if their ship becomes one of the missing?"

The admiral crossed her arms. She said nothing, probably not wanting to confirm this. Her disapproving stare, with narrowed eyes and thin lips, intimidated Deanna.

But she persisted. "Unless you intend to exclude the *Enterprise* from this tour of the Alliance's borders, my officers are staying. We were sent there once with incomplete information. I refuse to risk my ship and crew again, now that I know there is intelligence that might have spared us a lot of pain."

"You will follow orders."

"I will, when I have been properly briefed."

"You will *follow orders*," the admiral exclaimed, leaning forward.

"Are you going to allow us to make informed decisions, or expect us to move forward blindly as you did before?" Deanna crossed her arms. "That will determine whether I take my husband out of here and resign immediately."

She glared at the admiral and ignored her own trepidation and the fury she sensed. Nechayev might have been a statue, 'Artist's Study in Rage.'

"Blackmail," she exclaimed at last.

"No. I'm weighing the likelihood that I would wish to continue as an officer with tied hands against the desire to take an injured family member away to recuperate. If it becomes evident that my fears of the former are validated, the latter will be the only option. The doctor has already voiced his objections to this, and the counselor expressed concern and a wish to engage the captain in a more therapeutic dialogue before attempting an informative one. I'm giving you the option of an informed choice, Admiral. I'd appreciate the same consideration in return."

The admiral's frown put deep creases in her face. She stepped closer, lowered her voice, and changed tactics. "I understand your concern, Commander. But I'm not in a position to discuss it with you. I'm sure you can understand."

"Of course." Deanna reached for her pips.

"Commander," the admiral warned, glaring. When Deanna dropped her hand Nechayev sighed. "Has it occurred to you that I might call your bluff?"

"I wasn't aware it was a bluff."

The admiral raised an eyebrow at her and walked back into the holodeck. After a stunned moment, Deanna followed her, crossing behind the captain and taking the chair to his right.

Nechayev leaned to look the captain in the eye. "Captain Picard?" He didn't respond. The admiral exhaled, annoyed.

"The captain can't hear you," Deanna said. "In a way, he's not here. That's what I was trying to explain. There are other entities controlling his body right now."

"It is not easy." He blinked slowly, too deliberately. Were they trying to mimic human behavior, or experimenting? "You are very different."

"We should get back to your message. You understood that we would not trust the captain's orders after we determined he was compromised. How did you know the Sisnok would find him when he left your care?"

"When Picard was brought to us, we knew from his thoughts and those of his companions that the Asili and the Khevil were involved. The Asili are controlled by the Sisnok."

The admiral hardly reacted to this news. "And the K'korll? Who are they allied with?"

"We are not what you would consider members of the Alliance. We are unfortunate enough to live within their boundaries. We ignored the battles of others until we found that all our neighbors had been trapped into joining the Alliance. Fortunately, most of the species involved are frightened of us." The captain's eyes, though dilated and still unfocused, moved toward the admiral. "We request your help. We can provide information of use to you. The locations of the captured vessels and the disposition of your personnel, for instance."

"Our help in what?" the admiral asked.

"Our numbers have never been great, but we have lost many in attempts to flee. What is left of our people wish to relocate to the Federation and safety."

"That can be arranged."

The captain turned back to Deanna unexpectedly. "When we attempted to make contact, Picard rejected visual imagery, and when we provided an appearance of a more trusted and familiar entity, he rejected that as well. He felt we were a symptom of his loss of sanity. You must not take offense. He wished to protect you."

"I know," Deanna said, wishing the entities wouldn't say things like that in front of the admiral. "What do the Sisnok want?"

"Resources. It is what all of them want."

"All of whom?"

"Picard thinks of a Randra Alliance, a unified entity like your Federation. There is an alliance in the strictest definition of the term but it is not consistent. The membership changes as factions come to power and fall to others. The Sisnok have been slow to make the attempt but subtle in their execution."

"The Sisnok are not a major force within the Alliance," Carlisle said, half-questioning.

"They are one of several. Lacking the technology or resources with which to build their own fleets, they resort to subterfuge, such as they are doing with the Federation."

"Which of these factions you mention would be likely to welcome contact with the Federation?" the admiral asked.

He seemed to be considering the question, but Deanna sensed what was behind the stillness. "The admiral is looking for possible allies. Ones who would not be deceptive."

"It does not matter." His head dropped forward, his chin almost to his chest. "We do not know, and it would make no difference. Most would take advantage of you. There have been many idealists who have attempted to unify them. Those species are either in slavery or extinct."

"They were not the Federation," the admiral said firmly.

"The Federation does not matter."

"Why?" Deanna asked, before the admiral could voice her reaction to her own fears.

"They do not respect the Federation. Picard was concerned that we were agents of the Alliance trying to pull information from his thoughts. The Sisnok would have been capable of doing so, and they did not. The Federation does not threaten them. It is a resource, not an obstacle. If the Federation continues to attempt diplomatic solutions, the Sisnok will pursue that avenue as a means to an end, until it is no longer worth the effort. If the Federation threatens them, they will meet each attack with whatever force is necessary. It is of no consequence to them what you do. Federation species are like any other--inferior to them. If others outnumber them it is considered a temporary setback."

"The Federation has telepaths," Deanna exclaimed. "I'm not even a telepath, and they couldn't control me."

"You do not hear what I am telling you. Whether you are inferior or not is of no consequence to them. The Sisnok believe you are, and will act accordingly. You do not have enough telepaths to counter them."

"Do you know the location of their homeworld? We'd like to send a message to their government, regardless of their perception of us," the admiral said. "Perceptions can be changed."

"They have no fixed government."

"They don't have any single entity or group in charge," Ward said, probably having difficulty imagining it.

"We were created as we are and have never evolved through a phase lacking telepathy as we know it. We lack a centralized system of government. The Sisnok are similar."

"You were created," Deanna echoed. The ramifications put a knot in her stomach. Were there civilizations in the Alliance capable of manufacturing telepaths? "By whom?"

Another blink--the entities must be adjusting to the captain's body, as his eyes seemed to be focusing at last. They met hers. "They left this galaxy. It is of no concern. It is more important that you understand the Sisnok. They want to control your Starfleet, but they will fail; their control over humans is clumsy and incomplete, as we now realize, having observed their work in Picard. Rather than address the complexities of this species, they arrange a simple set of emotional reactions to mask their tampering and divert conversations from revealing subjects. You have proved that tampering with starship commanders is not enough. The Sisnok have underestimated you. Yet there is much that can be done to prevent needless suffering while they experiment further."

"You know the locations of the captured Starfleet vessels," Deanna said, before the admiral could respond as she sensed Nechayev might. "Can you give us coordinates?"

After long pauses, the captain gave sets of coordinates one at a time. Difficulty converting from one reference method to another, Deanna thought. How would a species without a means of audible communication give coordinates? Having only telepathy must have resulted in a very different approach than evolving into telepathy from a verbal mode of communication.

"The Khevil," Deanna said, after the captain finished. "Are they allies of the Sisnok, or independents trying to break free of the Alliance, as they claim?"

"They were forced to be both, in the interests of self-preservation. They gave the away team to us rather than surrendering them to the Asili, and told the Asili that Picard had been so injured that he would not have survived. The Sisnok could discern if they were not telling the truth. They did not wish to help the Sisnok but also they did not want to risk their hoped-for alliance with the Federation."

Nechayev studied the captain's face. Confused, she glanced at Deanna and asked, "Were the Asili attacking the Khevil to force them to give up the away team? I'm afraid I don't understand."

"The Sisnok wanted the Khevil to inform the *Enterprise* that the away team had died, then give the officers to the Asili."

"If they could take entire Starfleet vessels, why would they go to so much trouble to take only the away team?" Carlisle blurted.

The captain's head drifted back and up, as if he were trying to focus on the source of the question and not seeing Carlisle. "They understood the *Enterprise* is the flagship. They did not wish to risk hostilities with the Federation so long as they are unsure of the Federation's defenses. They wanted someone with influence in your government to provide them with information and access to other influential people, and Picard was regarded in the minds of previous prisoners as such a person. To take him without destroying a vessel of importance was their goal."

"The Khevil injured him on purpose," Deanna exclaimed. "Put him in a target building and provided enough shelter that he would survive. Took a risk with his life to get him away from the Sisnok."

"Did they also send a delegation of Asili to Deneva?" the admiral asked. "What purpose was that expedition intended to serve?" She glanced at Deanna as if to chastise her for not letting her ask the questions.

"We do not know about a delegation."

"What would the Asili have done if the *Enterprise* had brought the Asili fleet into Federation space?" Ward asked.

Before a response could be made, a red alert klaxon sounded, Deanna was paged to the bridge, and everyone but the captain were on their feet.

Deanna gave the counselor a pointed look, indicating the captain with a nod. Dr. Mengis rounded the table to join Counselor Davidson as the admiral and Deanna reached the doors together, the rest of the officers present following them.

@@@@@@@@@@

deLio found himself and the other three L'norim separated from the rest of their group, herded down dimly-lit corridors by armed *ghorshavin*. The gleaming green carapaces lacked any of the usual identifying markings. The six beings were a long way from their homeworld. They could only be conscripts--this wasn't the type of vessel they used. This theory solidified as several types of unknown alien crossed paths with the group on their way to wherever they would be held captive.

The *ghorshavin* took them through a door. With taps of tentacle tips on shoulders, they indicated that the prisoners were to kneel; deVin hissed, but as two more weapons were brought to bear on him, he dropped.

deLio glanced about, sizing up the room as the others were no doubt doing as well. The floors seemed to be covered with a uniform, slightly-spongy black material, and he landed on his knees hard enough to hear a hollow thump. The ceiling was made up of close-fitting square panels that gave off what little light there was, the walls bare and uniformly off-white. Nothing for a prisoner to pick up, get into, or break.

The door closed behind them. deLio risked a glance. Their captors had left them there alone.

"What now?" zeRia asked, voice quivering. "What do they wish? Who are they?"

"I suspect we shall discover this soon enough." seKahl sniffed the floor, then leaned to inspect the wall. "Many others have been here. Some human."

deVin stood up and prowled about the perimeter, shaking his head restlessly. deLio meant to ask why--then he felt the prickling at his throat, the anxiety, and found himself shaking automatically. He leaped to his feet. zeRia, startled and flushing solid, dark green, sprang from her knees with a howl, turned in the air, landed on her toes, and raked the door with her claws.

"*Askida*," deLio shouted.

The other three stared at him, panting, eyes dilated. Ready to attack.

"It's a telepathic attack," he explained. "This is how we detect it. The anxiety we feel is the key. They cannot succeed if we remember Selar's instructions. She prepared us, but we must do our part."

seKahl began to chant a repetitive children's rhyme and circle the room slowly. One by one, the others fell in behind him, finding the constant movement took the edge off the urge to leap and strike. deLio recited simple mathematical equations, progressing as far as basic warp physics before he had to switch to something else. He listed names of Terran foods, even classifying by ethnic group where he knew it, and moved on to Starfleet regulations he had memorized. While he mumbled in Standard he heard, in two different dialects, deVin and zeRia working through L'norim anatomy and gardening nomenclature, respectively.

Hours passed. When deLio couldn't walk any more, he moved to the center of the room and sank to the floor. The anxiety seemed to have ebbed. Perhaps the telepaths had given up for the moment. Closing his eyes, he indulged in a nap; as he sank into slumber he heard the others following his lead, and zeRia went so far as to prop herself against him, back to back. In the position of a fighter defending the back of a comrade in battle.

@@@@@@@@@@

The swans flew about like snowflakes in a blizzard, more numerous than the stars --

Inside a globe. He shook it, held it up while the children laughed over in the corner at their games, the reflection of the Christmas tree along one curved glass side.

The soft call of his wife. Setting the globe on the sideboard. Finding her in the kitchen, holding out a spoon for him to taste --

Chocolate. The dark eyes alight with laughter, the weight of her body, the faint fragrance of her skin --

Helping the children with the toy train. His nephew. His children. Mimi. Yves. The Christmas tree, smelling green, he'd brought it in just yesterday. The candles burning on the mantel --

Candles burning on the table beside the bed. The stars, blocked partially by the silhouette of her head, her eyes catching yellow hints of reflected flame, as she whispered his name, her lips brushing his --

"Captain?"

\-- the swans came down, swirled around him in widening circles, calling mournfully --

"Captain!"

\-- although they had never made noise before. The whispering of the air through their feathers, the concussions of each downbeat --

"--stimulators, now! Counselor, get out of the way!"

\-- tree. The children running. A woman's voice, familiar. Eline. The tree in the courtyard. The tree in the parlor, under tinsel. The tree for which they sacrificed water, to keep alive. The Christmas tree. The snow. The swans. A snowglobe, like his world, like his ship, self-contained, perfect, secure. He knew the illusion of safety in the familiar, knew that really no environment was safe, none, not Ressik or Labarre, or *Enterprise*--

"--of tricordrazine!"

"Sir, he's stabilizing!"

\-- the Nexus. But that way was stagnation. Meaninglessness. To become a memory rather than the thing itself. To be unreal.

The Borg whispered in his subconscious, data streamed unfiltered through his mind, and around him, the Starfleet vessels in flight, retreating, regrouping, denying the futility of resistance. Starlight on their hulls. Ships at full impulse winging through the stars.

The surf, sighing all around him, and the stars. Cold. Above him the swans flew silently, moonlight on their wings.

Eline's touch on his face, her voice announcing the fever had broken. But it wasn't Eline he saw when he opened his eyes. Not her face. Not her hair. Not her eyes. Not Batai's laughter he heard in the next room. Not his house in Ressik, but a captain's quarters aboard a starship, with synthetic fabrics and alloy walls, filtered air, keepsakes from a hundred worlds, and Deanna.

Deanna at the dressing table, brushing her hair. Pips on her red collar. Turning to smile at Yves, running into their room with the stuffed targ in his arms. Turning to smile at him.

Cygne.

He opened his eyes.

Blur. Brightness. An odd, sour taste on his tongue. Motion--the black blur resolved slowly, into Dr. Mengis' sleeve, shoulder, and the back of his head. He turned, brilliant green eyes intent on the patient, lips thinning under pressure.

"Is he awake?" The counselor appeared from the other side of the bed, leaning into his field of vision.

"Ben," Mengis chided gently. "Captain, I don't know how much you remember, and it doesn't matter right now, but whatever you do remember--you'll recover completely."

Picard wanted to move. The heaviness of his limbs hindered that effort. "Deanna," he said, appalled by the weakness of his voice.

The doctor exchanged glances with the counselor. "She's on the bridge," the counselor said.

"Bridge." Picard feinted left, trying to roll or sit up, but the counselor steadied him with a hand to his shoulder.

"You're not well enough to go. Rest."

An appealing suggestion, but he tried again, gripping the edge of the bed, but had no strength in his fingers. Or in his arm, or any other set of muscles--the back of his head hurt as if he'd struck it against something.

"Captain, stop," the counselor exclaimed. "Don't force the doctor to sedate you."

So he stopped, even closed his eyes. They left him alone then, their voices barely a murmur--perhaps coming from the doctor's office at the other end of sickbay.

The darkness and quiet helped. He rested. In his dreams, the murmur of the Collective and the surf merged, went silent, and the stars he dreamed of were the ones he had often seen in Deanna's eyes.

@@@@@@@@@@

"Report," Deanna exclaimed, shouldering past the admiral, out of the lift, and onto the bridge in three strides. Ward came right behind, followed by Geordi and the new temporary security chief.

"A ship matching the description of the one we encountered shortly after leaving Alliance territory," Thanin reported, coming to attention. The Bolian lieutenant nodded toward ops. "Mr. Edison matched it to the sensor scans."

"We detected it and went in pursuit," the lieutenant at tactical said. "We're currently at warp seven. The ship's heading is taking us straight back to the Alliance."

The admiral had made a more leisurely entrance and came to stand in front of the counselor's empty seat. "Are we assuming this vessel is deserving of pursuit?"

"Did you try to hail them?" Deanna asked, sensing the anxiety in the junior officers at the admiral's cool question.

"We did, but they did not answer." Thanin's cheeks had paled to sky-blue in dismay. "I'm sorry, Commander, I thought you would want to pursue, since it's suspected the last ship of this kind had something to do with the captain's condition."

"You are relieved, Lieutenant." Deanna turned away, determined to address the situation rather than the decision. She could speak with Thanin later, find out where he had learned enough about the captain's condition to connect it to this vessel. "What about the *Santee*? Has there been any communication with them?"

"No, sir," Rangel replied from tactical, where he'd joined the other lieutenant.

"Hail them. Edison, any changes?"

The blond shook his closely-shaved head. "The unidentified vessel is on the same heading, same speed. ETA at Alliance borders, forty-six minutes."

"I have the *Santee*," Rangel said. "Captain Maven is waiting."

Deanna glanced at the admiral. "Put the captain on the main viewer."

The screen flicked to a view of the bridge of an Intrepid-class, with Maven standing in the center. To her left and slightly behind her stood a tired-looking Jellico. "Commander Troi," Maven said by way of greeting, in as warm a tone as she ever used. "Admiral."

"Hello, Captain." Deanna paused, but Nechayev didn't take the opportunity. "I thought you should be told, we left the rendezvous point in pursuit of an alien vessel we believe to belong to the Alliance."

"We've been pursuing it, as well. Lieutenant?" She glanced down at the back of her ops officer's head.

"Maintaining speed and course--*Enterprise* is appearing on our long range, slightly ahead of us," the lieutenant-commander announced.

"Confirmed," came a quiet comment from ops, to Deanna's left. "We have *Santee* on our sensors."

"We had a brief delay in pursuit," Maven explained. "We were trying to beam survivors from the wreckage of the Asili vessel. The little ship we're chasing was apparently built into the hull of the larger one, and for some reason unknown to us, it tore its way from it and went to warp."

"We recovered about a hundred people from the wreckage of what was left," Jellico said, coming forward. "Most of them are Asili."

"Most?"

Jellico stared at Deanna; she couldn't sense the mild disdain that usually went with that expression. "Some were prisoners of other species. That discussion can wait."

"Sir," Rangel exclaimed. Maven's ops officer repeated the appeal for attention almost simultaneously. Deanna nodded to Rangel to continue, looking over her shoulder at him. "The ship just vanished from our sensors."

"It must be a cloaking device," she said, turning to Nechayev.

"We should stand down and drop to impulse," Nechayev said. "Rendezvous with the *Santee*. And if Admiral Jellico concurs, we can meet in the morning."

"Agreed," Jellico said. "We'll beam over at oh nine hundred. *Santee*, out."

"Cancel red alert." Deanna turned to Ward as the screen changed to the usual forward view. "We have staffing issues. I want a new roster for beta and gamma shifts. Ensign, drop us to impulse and let *Santee* catch up."

"I'll see you in the morning, Commander," the admiral said, heading up toward the lift. The bridge fell silent until she had gone, at which point the lieutenant who had been at tactical came down to the main bridge.

"Sir, Thanin only did what--"

"Lieutenant, that's quite enough," she snapped. Silence fell again. Edison half-turned in his chair to stare. Deanna glanced around, noting Thanin's absence--he must have left the bridge, which was not a good sign. "Mr. Gaffin, if you have a statement to make concerning Mr. Thanin's actions, you will make it somewhere other than the bridge. There is a time and place for it, but this is not it. You are dismissed."

Gaffin gave her a drop-jawed stare, as if he had just learned something reprehensible about her. "Sir," he exclaimed, then marched woodenly across the bridge. As he crossed in front of her, he shot Edison a meaningful look, then passed behind ops to the aft turbolift.

Edison turned back to his board and said nothing.

"You have the bridge, Mr. Carlisle, until you find a new watch officer." Deanna left him, aware of his solemn respect, and returned to the lift at the back of the bridge. Geordi, who had briefly displaced a lieutenant at the engineering station, hurried in behind her.

"I'm worried about the captain," he said after the doors closed. "And you."

Before, his concern had been a welcome sign of friendship; now it irritated her. She watched the display counting decks on the way to the holodeck.

"Deanna--"

"How did they know about the captain's condition?" She frowned at him, let her voice harden. "What good is it for me to have to be so objective, when the junior officers are making decisions so subjectively?"

"I--I don't know," Geordi said. He sidled away a step, taken aback. "Maybe they were taking their cues from deLio and the others."

"I should have put deLio in the brig."

"Commander," he began, then rethought what he was about to say. "Deanna, you know deLio had his motivations for doing it. He would have broken out of the brig. He's our chief of security--he'd get through whatever security measures we took."

"Then I should have removed him to the starbase when I had the chance. Let him steal someone else's shuttle." She shook her head and glared at the motion indicator as it shifted from vertical to horizontal travel with the turbolift's change of direction. "I shouldn't have made it so easy. I ordered him to go on leave precisely because of his attitude. No matter what his motives are, it's not excusable, especially if his behavior encourages others to behave likewise."

"You would have ordered pursuit of that vessel anyway. Wouldn't you?"

She turned away from him and stared at the wall.

"If your fear of decisions that seem to have a personal motivation ties your hands, how does that--"

"It doesn't tie my hands. I know my motivations. I think about them constantly. But junior officers don't, do they? Thanin made it obvious what he was thinking. Did he imagine I would thank him for acting in my husband's best interests? Perhaps give him a commendation for it?" She paused, collecting herself and reminding herself it wasn't Geordi's fault. She shouldn't lash out at him. "I'll talk to him. Probably give him another opportunity for bridge duty. But not this mission, and certainly not with Nechayev around."

"Glad to hear it. I was beginning to fear for my own future. I would've gone after it, too, and I'm not sure I wouldn't have had the same motives as Thanin."

The motion indicator returned to vertical, having changed direction three times so far. "You would be doing it for the captain's sake, as were the officers who went with deLio. We can't say the same for Thanin."

"Wait, slow down. You're angry at Thanin for that motivation. But you wouldn't be angry at me?"

"Helping the captain in order to impress me isn't a sin you're likely to commit."

"Oh." A long pause. "I don't know if I'd like working with an empath any closer than I already do."

"I can sense you from the bridge when you're in engineering, if I try."

He said nothing, but she could sense his serious contemplation of what she would assume to be an obvious thing. Geordi had been present often when she'd announced sensing people over long distances. Why would he assume he was exempt? A typical human blind spot.

When the doors opened on deck six, the doctor stood in the way, and behind him were a medical team, an anti-grav stretcher carrying the unconscious captain, and a worried counselor.

"He passed out when you left the room," Dr. Mengis said.

"I see." Deanna sidled out to let them have the lift. "Is he. . . ."

"Stable, for the moment. I will contact you if that changes." He eyed her, a warning implicit in the look; she nodded, knowing he wouldn't hesitate to reiterate his lectures on taking care of herself for the sake of her baby and her crew.

Geordi also abandoned the lift to the medical team, but strolled away from her and soon disappeared around a corner. That left her alone, to think about the admiral's attitude shift from moderately approving to chilly; about the officers who had left on a mission that seemed doomed; and, about a husband who might still be possessed by alien minds. There was also the matter of how rumor seemed to travel no matter how she thought it was being kept quiet. Who had discussed the captain's condition with junior officers? Or was it really some spontaneous reaction to deLio's departure? But he and his group had all been listed as officially on leave.

Her thoughtful walk ended at her quarters. The living room was dark, and obviously, Yves was asleep. Guinan came out of her temporary room after a few minutes and brought up the lights to half intensity with a quiet request to the computer.

"Would you like some tea?" she asked, heading to the replicator without waiting for an answer.

Deanna sat on the sofa. It occurred to her, as Guinan gave her a cup of hot chamomile and moved to sit with her, that this was why Jean-Luc had always valued his friendship with Guinan so highly--the unflappable calm and unshakable presence provided grounding in times of uncertainty. She had no rank, therefore no bias. And there was also her inscrutable way of never revealing all she knew, which reassured her clients and facilitated the unburdening of the soul.

"It's not going well," Guinan said. Not quite a question, but not quite a statement.

"The admiral nearly promised me a promotion today. Tonight, I probably guaranteed that I won't get it, in what I thought was the best interests of my officers." She paused, sipping carefully. "I saw good officers go on what's probably going to be a suicide mission, if I am correctly interpreting what I've found out recently. My husband has aliens controlling him."

Guinan nodded, hands folded in her lap. The long red dress was only distinguished from her daytime attire by the lack of sleeves and the absence of a hat. She contemplated Deanna's words silently.

"I'm feeling hostility toward anyone who expresses friendly concern. I'm tired. When Admiral Jellico gets here in the morning, I'm probably going to tell both admirals the sum of my suspicions and ask for answers from them that they probably won't give me. Explanations of how ships go missing and aliens kidnap Federation citizens without consequence, for example. I may not be an officer by the afternoon."

"By your choice, or theirs?"

"I suppose both. I wouldn't want to stay, if they can't answer me. Because it seems to me that when Command goes silent it probably means something has come up that Starfleet cannot handle, diplomatically or martially, and that time may be limited for all of us. In which case I would want to focus on my family."

Guinan nodded again. "I suppose I can understand that impulse. It was a fairly common one among civilizations who were not equipped to resist the Borg, as I understand. Hearing that a Borg vessel is on its way, and being unable to flee or defend against them, one's priorities change and time becomes more valuable."

Deanna watched a few tea leaves settle to the bottom of her cup, then leaned to place it on the table. "I was thinking about the Ressikan probe, actually. How it must have been for them to know how limited their time was, toward the end."

"Ah."

"And the flute. Whether he'll be able to play it again. . . ."

She bowed her head, elbows resting on her knees, and wished for the impossible. After long moments of silence, she brushed tears from her cheeks with her fingertips, sat up, and looked at Guinan again.

Guinan noticed and broke her serious contemplative expression with a slight smile. "It sounds like you're a Starfleet officer."

Deanna met Guinan's dark chocolate eyes, and thought about the veneer of stating the obvious over the real message in that observation. "It isn't the first time I've asked the questions, thought about consequences, and contemplated changes of direction."

"It won't be the last. It never is."

"For me, or for anyone in command?"

"You've always been able to tell when people are uncertain of their own judgement," Guinan said, rising. "You tell me."

Once Guinan's door closed and left her alone again, Deanna smiled, discarded the last bit of her cooling tea, checked on her sleeping son and the ever-watchful dog, and went to her bedroom. As she changed out of her uniform, she decided that there should be a way to teach the Guinan method to counselors. Perhaps it was unteachable, but it would have made the job much easier.

At least she could rely on it now, she thought as she settled in for the night.

@@@@@@@@@@

Picard woke with the realization that he'd slept, to find the lights had been dimmed and he was alone. The dreams left him disoriented and expecting his own bed instead of a flat, uncomfortable biobed in sickbay. He missed his wife, missed her warmth and even her snoring. Though gravity seemed to drag heavily at his limbs as before, he managed to sit up. He could stand, and unsteady as his legs were, he took a few steps and found he gained strength as he moved. The headache had gone.

Hungry, he turned toward the nearer end of the room, knowing there was a break room with a replicator there, but a quiet clearing of a throat told him someone was already there--probably the night nurse.

He made it to the end of the corridor before he was caught. But the hand on his arm didn't belong to a nurse--he turned to confront the counselor, looking as though he'd been sleeping in uniform and just awakened.

"I'm going home."

The pronouncement only made Davidson look more weary. "You should stay in sickbay--and I'd think by now you would get tired of hearing that and just stay. It's enough to make the medical staff think you don't trust their judgement."

"I'm fine."

Davidson massaged his brow with the heel of his hand, sighing. "Do you know what time it is? Don't make me call Dr. Mengis down here to enforce this with a tranquilizer. You belong in sickbay for now."

The burst of energy dissipated with the counselor's mention of the time. Picard glanced at the lift, but let Davidson lead him back to sickbay. "Can I at least have something to eat?"

The counselor asked the nurse, who brought him soup. At least the two of them left him to eat in peace. Davidson retreated to the back ward, which lay beyond the doctor's office off main sickbay, and the nurse went to the break room. Picard set aside the empty bowl and lay down again. Sleep came quickly.

The next time he woke, he heard the doctor's greeting to a lieutenant. The morning shift change. Mengis came to look Picard over. "Breakfast time," he announced. "How do you feel?"

"Tired."

"What day is it?" It took a few minutes for Picard to remember, and when he answered, Mengis nodded and looked at the readouts over his head. "What's the last thing you remember before you woke?"

"Last night. The counselor was here. I was hungry."

"And before that?"

"I woke here, in this bed, and you forced me to rest."

"Before that?"

Frowning, Picard thought about the last mission. He knew vaguely that his memory was not accurate; he remembered the date but it wasn't what corresponded with the dates of their visit to a colony in sector 348.

"We can help you, but only if you cooperate." The counselor had come back--had never left, Picard realized, as the doors to sickbay hadn't opened and Davidson came from the direction of the break room, to stand on the right side of the biobed. "Just tell us the last thing you remember. No matter what it is."

"The colony we visited in sector--" A flash of images interrupted him. "No. I remember a beach."

Davidson nodded, dragging a chair around to sit. "And you were doing what on the beach?"

"Nothing. Watching the birds. There were sea gulls. It was night--cold. I was looking for something."

"How did you get to the beach?"

"I don't remember." Which was something he repeated, as the counselor asked other questions, until he resorted to describing the beach itself and the things that happened next--the attack of the gulls, the swan, the pain that followed. The ocean upon which he drifted, and the cold. The counselor listened calmly; Mengis had left them alone, apparently taking the rest of his staff with him.

The more he described the disjointed memories, the more of them there were, until he recalled being on a ship with deLio, at which point he was certain it stopped being a dream. Now the telling became continuous, without sudden dislocations in time or location, and he remembered conversations and decisions he'd made.

When he reached the point at which he'd returned to the *Enterprise*, he stopped. "Captain?" the counselor prodded gently.

"No." Picard left the biobed, where he'd been sitting up while he talked. "It can't be right."

"What do you mean?" Davidson asked it in that way that counselors ask questions they already know the answer to, or think they do.

"I wouldn't have done that. I wouldn't have said--it must be a delusion." He paced between the biobeds.

"Do you remember the Sisnok?"

Picard stared at the counselor. The name seemed familiar. "I don't know."

"They would have been in contact with you while you were among the Asili. They're telepathic. I'm not sure what they look like."

"All I saw on the Asili ship were the Asili. What are you getting at, Counselor?"

"We believe you were under their control. What you're remembering, your behavior, wasn't your fault."

Picard considered this, thinking about the reception, the encounter with Deanna afterward, and more memories tumbled into being. He rushed for the door, ignoring Davidson calling his name, and ran--from the past as well as from the counselor.

In the lift, a single lieutenant eyed him with raised eyebrows, and he realized he still wore the wrinkled clothes from yesterday. He escaped her staring on deck eight and hurried for home, out of breath. The doors parted and he strode into the living room, kicking aside a toy he didn't see in time.

They weren't there. Of course. She would have taken Yves to daycare and gone to the bridge already. He caught his breath while looking around; he hadn't been here recently, after all, as the time on the holodeck didn't count. Other than a couple of toys everything was in its normal place, the table clean, the cushions arranged on the sofa.

The bedroom was the same, though the bed hadn't been made. He went past Deanna's dressing table, caught a faint trace of her perfume still hanging in the air, and turned on the light in the bathroom. Again, neat and organized. A clear box on a shelf over the sink caught his eye; she'd preserved the flower he had left for her before he'd beamed down to Khevlin.

Closing his eyes, he concentrated on keeping his breathing even and putting aside the personal memories, striving for objectivity, or at least not to fall apart.

"Captain?"

He followed Davidson's voice, found the counselor in the living room. And Deanna, hands tucked behind her back, composed and wearing her counselor's face, calm interest with the grace note of a smile. That expression split his heart in two. Worse, she sensed his reaction and her composure faltered, her eyes mirroring pain she shouldn't feel. Her hand came to rest on her stomach, her fingers curled, and this automatic reaction drew his attention and reminded him of the fact that her pregnancy now showed in uniform.

He wanted to say something, apologize for everything, and now she shook her head, a few tears sparkling in her eyelashes. No need for that, her expression said. She understood.

He stumbled, throat burning, and was in the corridor before his vision cleared. "Sorry," he gasped, leaning against a bulkhead.

Davidson had followed him. "Sir--"

"Leave me alone, damn it!"

But the counselor followed him. He wandered down the corridor until he stopped in front of the door of the cabin he'd been in before, the temporary quarters he thought he remembered. The counselor stayed out of arm's reach.

"Why did you run away from her?" Davidson demanded.

Picard marched through the doors. The counselor didn't follow. The living area was as bare and impersonal as before, except for one thing. He went to the sofa and sat, then picked up the picture from the end table where he'd left it. The smiling faces of his wife and son, in an oval frame.

He set it on the coffee table. That single item against a background of para-military blandness seemed fitting, at the moment. A tiny island of personal overwhelmed and isolated by duty and the consequences of having been at the forefront of a diplomatic mission gone awry.

An indeterminate amount of time later, after much contemplation, he remembered how long it had been since the last time he'd showered. He retreated to the bathroom, which was small and bare--no tub, no personal items, no sign of occupation. He could let himself be as barren as the white walls, let the sonics provide the familiar, minimal stimulation, perhaps even let himself forget for a time that anything had gone wrong.

@@@@@@@@@@@@

Davidson came back. She let him in immediately, and his expression matched what she sensed from him. "I'm sorry."

"It isn't your fault." Deanna dabbed at her eye with the tissue again. "The doctor is right. Whatever was left of the aliens' influence is gone."

"You sensed the difference?"

"I sensed their absence, and his reaction to seeing me. When he was free of the influence of the Sisnok, the K'korll pushed him to find me and he resisted them. Now that he's free of the K'korll, he doesn't have to resist. He's afraid of hurting me." Which hadn't been his only reaction, but Davidson didn't have to know the rest unless Jean-Luc told him.

"Are you all right?"

She nodded, trying for a smile. "I have to be. We have an appointment with admirals at nine hundred."

"We?" The counselor didn't care for Nechayev; the thought of meeting the admiral distracted him from expressing further concerns for her.

"You spent the night in sickbay, and you and the doctor monitored the captain's condition. We should give the admiral an update. She'll want to know if he said anything else."

"I should get some of those reports from Gregory, then. Especially the data he gathered on the difference between the captain's brain activity during and after last night's gathering." He hesitated, studying her. "You have an appointment this afternoon. My office. Say, fourteen hundred hours?"

"That would be acceptable. See you in half an hour, in the briefing room on deck two." After he left, she went to wash her face and collect her wits.

She sat at her dressing table and contemplated her clean face. Her eyes appeared smaller without makeup. Wrapping her hair around and around itself, she pinned it in a knot and reached for eye liner, remembering her first lessons in makeup. The idea of decorating one's face wasn't foreign to Betazed, but accentuating one's features so as to make it appear that one's face normally looked that way had been a fad picked up from humans, like so many other fads. In her generation, it wasn't unusual for women, or men, to use makeup to enhance their least favorite features--make eyes look bigger, make lips fuller--but it wasn't a widespread trend.

"Computer, access my personal logs and play from bookmark beta twenty-five." She underlined her left eye, dabbing away excess with the edge of a sponge. The bookmark, one of about three dozen she'd set in various places in her logs, had been placed in the heart of a long entry she'd made during the busiest period of her career as a counselor.

Her voice, coming forward through the years, reminded her poignantly of how tired and frustrated she'd been then. "Now that he's finally decided, on his own, to go home for a visit, I find myself suspicious. He hasn't been back to France in so long. His life there was so opposite his life in Starfleet. I know that his brother and father were opposed to his joining Starfleet, and that he hasn't spoken to his brother or seen him in more than a decade because of the acrimony between them. Yet the very few times he's mentioned home to me, I could sense other emotion, the longing he wouldn't acknowledge.

"Anyone who has any knowledge of human psychoanalytic theory could guess that he's experiencing yet another phase of the human life cycle. As they age, humans look back at their lives and assess them--in later years, depending on how one has lived, the assessment can include acceptance, regret, longing, self-criticism, contentment, and often combinations of all these things. He's middle-aged, by modern human standards, but his recent experience has pushed him into such an emotional crisis that it's forcing him to take a hard look at himself now.

"Although he's harbored some wistfulness about his home for many years, he's not reached a point at which he actually wants to go. I would, if I couldn't tell otherwise, assume that he needs a grounding in the place where he began--there's still a connection to home, though he's fled far from it for so long. But there's more to it than that. I can tell he's hiding something from me. He wants to return to duty; he said so often early in this round of counseling sessions. But the longer we worked through it, the less reference to this he made, and when I went today to see him off before he beamed down to Earth, I sensed sadness and wistfulness when I mentioned his return. In fact, I would say his dominant mood was one of resignation, as he packed a few things and thought about the trip."

"Computer, stop." Deanna finished with lip color, set aside the tube, and stood, straightening her uniform. She'd lost track of which bookmark was which. That hadn't been the entry she'd thought it would be. Still, it was related to what she'd been thinking, and viewed now through hindsight and knowing what had happened on that trip home, she could presume that his earlier departure wasn't necessarily a bad thing. During his recovery from the Borg, in spite of her efforts as his counselor, he had sought his own cure and found one. If being with her kept him from healing, it was better that they stayed apart for the time being. He'd find his way back home.

Clinging to this thought, she brushed out her hair to rearrange it, thus occupying the time left before meeting the admirals.

At seven hundred fifty-seven, Deanna reached the small conference room down the corridor from her office. Counselor Davidson waited for her in the corridor. He followed her inside.

"Good morning," Deanna said. Jellico and Nechayev gave her the briefest of smiles. Maven's was more genuine, though still minimal. The three officers sat around the far end of the table, Nechayev at the head with Maven on her left and Jellico on her right.

Deanna gestured for the counselor to sit and went to the replicator. She brought two cups back with her and passed one to Davidson, then sat across from him, next to Maven.

"Lieutenant-Commander Davidson has been keeping a close eye on the captain," she explained. "I brought him with me because I thought you would like an update on his condition."

"Good. Counselor?" Nechayev put down her cup of tea and folded her hands on the table.

"The captain has finally reached a point at which Dr. Mengis and I believe he's no longer under any telepathic influence," Davidson began. He slipped a module into the console built into the table, and with a few taps of the controls displayed a trio of readouts on the viewscreen behind Jellico. "Until now, the doctor could not conclusively determine whether the differences in the captain's brain activity were due to trauma or deliberate tampering. The top readout graphs the readout from his last physical, a couple of months before Khevlin. The second is from last night, the results of monitoring him during the 'possession' of the K'korll --it's not appreciably different from the many readings taken since he returned to the ship from the Asili vessel. Slightly more active in some respects, I'm told, but the patterns are basically the same. The third readout is this morning. You can tell the difference just by looking at it."

"Then he's returned to normal," Jellico half-asked.

"His brain activity has. His mental state is suspect. We can't expect him to completely recover overnight--what we can assume is that he will in fact recover, given time."

"Does he remember anything he said last night?" Jellico asked.

"We don't know," Davidson said, glancing at Deanna. Obviously, the admirals had been discussing this, if Jellico could ask. "Yet."

"You will keep us posted, I hope, Counselor," Nechayev said. "Thank you for letting us know."

The abrupt dismissal surprised Davidson; he'd expected more questions, no doubt. Deanna had as well. She nodded to him, watched him leave, and turned to Nechayev, waiting for her to direct the rest of the meeting.

"Admiral Jellico," Nechayev said, nodding in Jellico's direction.

"Yes. Well." Jellico smiled, in the perfunctory professional way he always had. "I found your report very interesting, Commander, for a number of reasons. It's similar in some ways to the string of reports we had from the *Clarion* before she went missing."

The implicit admission of things Nechayev had refused to acknowledge should be encouraging. Deanna considered responding, but merely acknowledged the admiral's statement by leaning forward slightly and meeting his eyes.

"You're certain that the Khevil understood what was happening and were actively conspiring to send Captain Picard to the K'korll," he continued, half-asking, pushing forward with more assumptions.

"Yes. The K'korll said as much."

"Would you have done anything differently, had you known prior to the Asili's attack that it was all a manipulation?"

"And what could I have done differently?" Deanna sat back, dropping her hands to her lap. The baby chose that moment to plant a foot against her abdominal wall.

"You could have attacked. You've shown surprising battle acumen, after all."

"Really?" she exclaimed, tired of his condescension. "Is this observation based on this mission? There was no battle. And, any defensive maneuvers might have been unnecessary, had I been fully briefed instead of simply told not to get in a fight then left without support in the middle of hostile territory. You knew there would be something more than a diplomatic mission--you suspected complications would occur. But Admiral Farok didn't inform the captain."

Jellico stared across the table. The silence grew long; Deanna sensed a surprising satisfaction from Nechayev, amusement from Maven, and from Jellico the usual disdain, now multiplied by her sudden outburst of anger and defensiveness.

"My apologies, Admiral Jellico," Deanna said at last, smoothing over her angry tone with insistent professionalism. "I could have attacked, true. Now that I know it wouldn't have started a war, it seems less of a drastic measure to consider defending ourselves in battle. But I still wouldn't have resorted to hostilities, if I had known more at the time."

"I understand your anger, Commander," Jellico said. "It's admirable that you're protective of your ship and crew. But it would behoove you to remember that sometimes orders are given to be followed, and Starfleet has its reasons for not giving a full explanation of its motives."

Deanna paused, drawing out the silence by feigning contemplation of an answer. It gave her an opportunity to assess Jellico's reaction to her hesitation, and decide what to do next. "It seems to me," she said at last, "that I've heard these reassurances before."

"Of course," Jellico began.

"But it isn't reassuring to hear them again. You may think it isn't necessary to tell your ship commanders all you know about a situation, but you're wrong."

Jellico stared, then gave Nechayev a look. She cleared her throat. "Commander, this is a meeting to discuss the mission, not air grievances."

"The mission is the subject of my grievance, as you call it." Under the table, Deanna pressed her palm against her abdomen and felt the gentle impact of the baby's kick. "We're dealing with the Asili, who outnumber and thus outgun any single Federation vessel, and who think nothing of consuming any creature they find, whether sentient or not. I think you knew this about them before the *Enterprise* went to Khevlin. You also knew we would probably encounter them. We should have been told."

Jellico's head went up. "Commander, I find that suggestion offensive!"

"Really? I find that statement unbelievable. You're not offended. That's an attempt to distract me."

Nechayev's head turned sharply toward Deanna. "Commander!"

Deanna met Jellico's hostile stare without flinching. "You can honestly tell me you didn't know the Asili are cannibals? That you didn't anticipate the *Enterprise* would be confronted by them? That you sincerely believed there was no threat of an Asili attack on us, in spite of the fact that ships have vanished in this sector over the past year? That the outposts in this sector, listed as scientific and benign and intended to study a nebula, are not in fact here to monitor activity on the other side of the Alliance border? They're closer to the border than they are to the nebula, after all. And when I offered assistance after one was attacked they refused me--as if they had something to hide, something more important than their well-being. In fact, they were generating some interesting signals--my chief engineer noted that it almost looked like a tachyon grid. Which reminded me of a similar tactic we once used along the Romulan Neutral Zone, to detect cloaked ships. And we're not supposed to know about the cloaked ships of the Sisnok, are we? So why is there a clandestine tachyon grid?"

Jellico frowned, his forehead deeply-furrowed, anger glittering coldly in his eyes. "There are reasons," he said through clenched jaw. "We believe the nebula is strategically important to the Alliance. If we placed the outposts too close it would arouse suspicion."

"I'm sorry, Admiral, but even if I couldn't tell you were lying, that doesn't make any sense whatsoever, since placing outposts along a known border would seem even more suspicious than putting them close to a nebula not along the border."

"Betazoid ethics," he exclaimed, actually raising a finger as if to lecture.

"I can tell you haven't paid any attention to my personnel file, or if you did, that my heritage seemed insignificant to you. I'm an empath. You give off emotions freely, like a star emits radiation. That I can read them doesn't imply breach of ethics. I can hardly ignore them, what with you sitting across the table from me." Deanna folded her hands in her lap and took a moment to calm herself; next to her, Maven continued to radiate great amusement at the situation, and Nechayev had become furious and disbelieving. The fury might be at Jellico or Deanna, and since she didn't know which, further confrontation would be unwise.

The room fell silent. Deanna's stomach turned, reacting to the currents of anger and betrayal. She picked up her cup, sipped, and waited. Staying matter-of-fact had been difficult; she indulged in pride at her restraint and tact, when she would rather have been shouting and demanding answers.

"I'd like to know what you intend to do next," Nechayev asked Jellico. She picked up her cup to sip coffee. The request hinted that this was Jellico's assignment, which perhaps explained Nechayev's unwillingness to say anything to Deanna about the details.

Jellico glanced from the fleet admiral to Deanna, including Maven in the gesture.

"I think the commander has every right to hear your plans," Nechayev announced curtly. She knew him well, obviously. "For the duration of Captain Picard's incapacity, she will remain in command of the *Enterprise*, which has been assigned to patrol the borders as well as the *Santee*."

Jellico studied Deanna, calculating her worthiness, perhaps. He rolled his shoulders forward, rested his hands and forearms on the table, shifted in his chair, and cleared his throat. "When the Khevil initiated contact, we were skeptical. We--Admiral Farok and I, that is--requested the *Enterprise* to negotiate, because of Picard's depth of experience. We needed an able diplomat, plus someone who had proven capable of beating the odds in battle."

"Except you never told us the odds," Deanna exclaimed, unable to keep silent.

"If we had any such data, we could have given it to you. Would have," he amended. "But it would appear we've been outmaneuvered. Those outposts rarely pick up Alliance vessels. They do manage to present a barrier of sorts."

"What barrier? The Asili raided one of them."

"Not without a fight. The outpost commanders have instructions to keep a low profile, as you know. It wasn't the first attack Penaias had ever experienced."

"I have a question," Maven said. Raising her head as she spoke, she gazed across the table at Jellico. "How long have you known the Asili like to eat people? And were you planning on telling me before or after I encountered them? Because that's the sort of information that would make a difference in whether I considered auto-destruct an option in some circumstances."

Jellico frowned. "I don't believe that would become a necessity, Captain."

"I disagree." Maven's cold smile looked nothing like Nechayev's--eerily, it reminded Deanna of Tom Glendenning's confident, threatening one. "I went to sickbay after we rescued people from the wreckage of the Asili vessel. The patients who were awake had some stories to tell. Being kidnaped from a hotel on Deneva and thrown into an Asili hold made a definite impression on them. The Betazoid we rescued is in a self-induced coma, apparently, since nothing was done to her. Her husband, on the other hand, had been injured and later removed from their cell. She fell unconscious shortly after his disappearance."

"Which explains the self-induced coma." Deanna cleared her throat and tried not to remember her visit to Ze's ship. "She would have known exactly what happened to him, and even if his experience wasn't enough to make her suicidal, the thought of going through it again first hand would have been. I don't believe the Asili bother to kill their prey before. . . ." She almost picked up her drink, but noticed how her hand shook and put it in her lap instead.

"Did you give a copy of the commander's report to the captain?" Nechayev asked Jellico.

"No. I didn't see--"

"Commander, would you forward her a copy?" Nechayev was at her cool, professional best. Jellico probably didn't know she even had children, let alone that Maven was one of them.

"Admiral, please. That report is mostly speculation--"

"Is it?" Nechayev turned cold eyes on him, faintly frowning--the only sign of a growing impatience and hostility. She didn't like Jellico, either.

Deanna pursed her lips and spent a moment trying to settle her stomach, which seemed determined to reject whatever was left of breakfast. Too many strong negative emotions, not enough inhibitor to compensate. Her usual dose wasn't enough to fend off such intensity.

"Commander?" Maven's concern surprised her; so did the hand on her shoulder.

"It's nothing. Just an upset stomach." Deanna raised her eyes and found all three of them looking at her. Maven stopped touching her shoulder.

"Would you explain to me, please, how you came to speculate so much about the motivations of the Asili and these other aliens, the Sisnok?" Jellico asked. "Most of your report consisted of theories. We need more substance and less hypothesizing."

He was re-directing everyone's attention. Predictable. He didn't want to be in Nechayev's cross-hairs any longer than necessary. Deanna had actually expected this to be the first question he asked; Jellico didn't like theories, and preferred to work out his strategies in advance. When things didn't follow his predicted patterns, he usually fell back on secondary planning. This meeting hadn't gone according to any of his plans, and he had lost an advantage.

"Some background, if you would indulge me," she began. "Betazoid brain function differs from that of humans; it's the largest difference between the two species. Humans can consciously use very little of their mind, but Betazoids have developed additional abilities that enable them to utilize most of theirs. As I am a hybrid and technically neither Betazoid nor human, my ability has always fallen somewhere between the two norms. Empathy has always been my strongest Betazoid trait. However, as I explore my abilities and exercise them, I've discovered that through a mixture of human and Betazoid mental techniques, I am capable of more than I'd initially thought.

"After the Asili attack at Khevlin, I used what I have learned to round out my observations of their behavior. Using a visual playback of our sensor logs of the Asili's movements as a series of triggers, I managed to retrieve memories of what I sensed from the Asili, the Khevil, and a trace of an alien presence I could not then identify. I had assumed it must be alien traders on Khevlin, uninvolved third parties. It was not--I sensed the same sort of alien several times afterward. I believe I was picking up the Sisnok."

"I'm impressed," Maven exclaimed. "You can tell one species from another, and read that much from so many individuals without being overwhelmed?"

"Through meditation and a modified form of biofeedback, yes. Normally most of what I sense passes unnoticed. However, my mind, like a human mind, retains memories of much more than I consciously notice. Retrieving it has taken a lot of practice."

"The Sisnok were on Khevil, then," Nechayev said, as if that were a major discovery.

"No. They were aboard some of the Asili vessels, where they usually are. Primarily the ones with *hechii* aboard, I believe. I don't believe they can read the Khevlin well enough to make use of them. Betazoids can't read certain species, specifically Ferengi and Dopterans, and I had similar difficulties with the Khevlin."

Jellico wasn't happy, and the creases in his forehead said so. Skepticism pursed his lips. "You make these assumptions, time after time. We can't act on assumptions."

"Admiral, I'm not making assumptions." Deanna paused for a drink, regrouping as she did so. "I'm interpreting what I've sensed based on what we have observed of the behavior of the aliens in question. If the Sisnok could make use of the Khevlin, they would have. I could get very little from the Khevlin, but what I did sense told me that they were deceptive. That they were deceiving us out of self-preservation only came clear after the K'korll, speaking through Captain Picard, informed us of the Khevlin's real status within the Alliance."

Jellico shifted in his chair, knitting his fingers and resting his arms on the table. "So you made a series of assumptions based on what you observed, what you sensed, the behavior of the Asili, and the statements of what you claim were K'korll inhabiting the captain's body--and your final analysis of why the Asili came to Federation space, kidnaped a small group of people, and tried to gain Federation membership through Captain Picard is?"

"Grocery shopping."

Maven snorted into her coffee; she'd been caught in mid-sip. Nechayev sighed.

"The Asili went to Deneva, where a widely-publicized event drawing people of all species took place. It was in fact the only such event about which it was repeatedly asserted, on unscrambled, open frequencies, that representatives of nearly ninety percent of the Federation member worlds attended. They left with samples of acceptable species."

"Commander, if your assumptions are correct and the Sisnok are controlling the Asili, there has to be more to it than 'grocery shopping,' as you put it," Jellico said. His tone reminded Deanna of an adult trying to reason with a small, stubborn child.

"No. They see us as a resource. The Asili are also a resource for them--probably their entire fighting force is Asili, in stolen vessels. There would be more Asili if they could feed them." Deanna swallowed, tried to control her stomach's reaction to the thought of what she was about to say, and went on. "I suspect that the Asili, in the absence of replicator technology and the ability to forage for or purchase food, are feeding on each other. Their methods of reproduction would make this the most efficient way of keeping their population up, yet keeping it in check. The Sisnok would be able to build up an even larger fighting force if they were to use the Federation as a source of ships and food for the Asili. They can't do that in Alliance territory--if, as the K'korll say, the Sisnok are being unobtrusive in their bids for power within Alliance space, it would run counter to their purposes to let the Asili run amok."

"It makes sense," Maven said.

"Unfortunately." Nechayev raised an eyebrow at Jellico. "I believe the commander has made significant progress on this mission. Perhaps you should take that into consideration."

What did the admiral mean by that? Deanna glanced at Maven. She didn't seem to know, either, and waited with folded hands for the admirals to continue the discussion, curiosity in her dark eyes.

After long moments of consideration, Jellico nodded. "I will remain aboard the *Enterprise* for the duration. As the commander has demonstrated considerable tact in her dealings with the Asili and the Khevlin, regardless of her opinion of their motives, I trust she will continue to conduct herself in the proper Starfleet manner." He faced Deanna and Maven more directly, his icy gray-blue eyes flicking back and forth as if looking at either of them for more than two seconds would be detrimental to his health. "I will be visiting each of the outposts, and depending upon the presence or absence of Asili ships in the vicinity, I'd like to visit Khevlin myself."

"And the *Santee*?" Maven asked.

"Will be the first to patrol the border. The rescued personnel will be returned to the starbase on the *Enterprise*, as will the fleet admiral," Jellico said. "Then we will set a course that will take us to each outpost in turn, and eventually rendezvous with the *Santee* before both ships turn back. Future patrols of these borders will be performed by two or three vessels at a time, providing more immediate response in the event one vessel is attacked."

After the hostility, the dodging, and the disdain, this speech of Jellico's and its accompanying mood shift caught Deanna off guard. She nodded curtly, not trusting herself to speak without sounding smug. Pushing admirals and coming out of it with an important assignment--and begrudging respect, too--wasn't something one could publicly gloat over.

"Captain Maven, I suggest we leave the commander and Admiral Jellico to discuss this. I see no reason for us to remain," Nechayev said, rising. "Commander, I took the liberty of forwarding a copy of last night's meeting to Admiral Jellico, but he may have other questions for you regarding the captain's behavior."

"Yes, sir."

Jellico drank coffee rather than watch the two leave the room. Maven glanced over her shoulder at Deanna and flashed a smile. Her emotional state didn't exactly match that action, leaving Deanna with another puzzle to solve. Nechayev's behavior could be explained--she had stayed long enough to ensure that Jellico took Deanna seriously. Whether the satisfaction that brought her meant she had succeeded in giving Jellico what he deserved, or Deanna what she deserved--and if the latter, did she deserve the assignment or the tribulation of dealing with Jellico? -- wasn't immediately obvious. Sometimes, emotional feedback could be a curse.

Jellico cleared his throat. "Well, Commander, it seems we're left with two problems. We have Asili guests, and the possibility of further violence from the Asili fleet during our tour of duty."

Deanna pursed her lips to hide a smile. "Would you care for something to eat?" She rose, making a point of smoothing her uniform over her abdomen, and headed for the replicator.

"No, thank you." He was surprised, and to a degree too great to attribute to the offer of food, therefore he must not have noticed she was pregnant before. He had children and grandchildren, had thought enough of them to carry around their artwork and display it in prominent places the last time he'd been aboard. He wouldn't be any less demanding so far as duty went, but he might take her condition into consideration and be a little more pleasant when dealing with her.

"Returning the Asili to their people might be difficult, if we can't find their fleet," he said as she returned with a plate of plain bread.

"I think we should take advantage of that." Deanna stalled, tearing the bread into chunks while she assessed his openness to the suggestion.

"How?"

"I'd like to know more about the Asili on Deneva, their behavior while in the company of many species. If it was consistent with the behavior my crew and I observed." She paused to chew and swallow a small bite. "If it is, I suggest that we create a series of non-verbal messages for them."

The furrows in his forehead deepened. "Non-verbal messages," he echoed.

"We don't want them to continue capturing our ships, or trying to hunt down our citizens. We know they're not terribly intelligent, that what technology they have has been given to them. Rather than step up military presence along the borders and guaranteeing violence, we should demonstrate to them that Federation citizens are not palatable and our ships are unsuitable."

"But they already know differently."

"They know that the people and vessels they have already are acceptable. We should have our Asili guests checked over by our medical staff thoroughly, for their welfare, and shortly afterward give them a tour of the *Enterprise*. Along the way they will encounter some very small spaces, which they do not like, in some important areas of the ship. They will also meet people who do not smell good to them. In the introduction, we can make a point of letting them know that the vast majority of the Federation is in fact made up of this subspecies, that more of them are joining Starfleet all the time, that all new vessels are redesigned to these standards, and shortly there will be cramped vessels full of these foul-smelling and unappetizing people. A tailored holodeck version of the ship and a few hours of collaboration between the CMO and our chemistry department should give us something adequately distasteful."

Jellico found the idea startling. "Well. I'll give that some consideration--I'd like to discuss it with Lieutenant-Commander Tierney as well, since she studied the Asili on Deneva. She was one of the fortunates rescued from Asili captivity."

"How many survivors are there?"

"We were able to retrieve ninety-eight people before the ship disintegrated. The ambassador, the Betazoid woman, and Tierney were among them. Six are Asili and one is Chechik, another Alliance species." He contemplated her, eyes narrowing. "You know, I think you should meet them. Since your perceptions are playing such a large role in this, why don't we see what you think of our guests?"

She disposed of her plate and cup on the way out. Following him to sickbay, she tried to prepare herself for whatever awaited them.

@@@@@@@@@@@@

Laerta came awake as the doctor said, "Ready." Blinking and rolling her head toward the doctor's voice, Laerta saw the patient on the next biobed disappear in a transporter beam.

"Where did she go?"

The doctor turned around, smiling reassuringly. "We're transferring you to the *Enterprise*."

"But I just got here."

"Not really." The doctor tapped her comm badge. "Biobed four, ready. Good-bye, Ambassador."

When the tingling of transport faded, she tried to sit up. This sickbay was larger, laid out in a crescent with two more beds than the *Santee*'s, and the people were all different. To her right, the Betazoid woman lay on a bed, still curled up on her side; a nurse was checking her over. Hopefully the poor lady would be bathed and put in some clothing soon; though she was mostly covered by a blanket, Laerta could see the tangles in her hair and dirt on her face.

To the left, two men examined Bisfa. The Chechik wasn't doing well. The biobed readouts were going crazy, and the medics looked worried. At least he'd been rescued.

"Hello, Ambassador."

She turned back to the right and found a kind-eyed man wearing lieutenant-commander's pips standing over her. "Hi."

"I'm Counselor Davidson. How are you feeling?"

"Tired. Weak. It's been a long couple of weeks."

Davidson nodded agreement, looking a little tired himself. "Anything I can do for you?"

"I think I'll be okay, actually."

He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of doors opening, and sighed. "Commander Troi," he exclaimed, as a short Betazoid woman joined him. "Admiral."

"I see the ambassador is awake," Jellico's voice said from somewhere behind the counselor and the commander. From the bed Laerta couldn't see.

"I was just checking to see if I was needed," Davidson said.

"I'm sure you're going to spend plenty of time with the survivors," Troi said. "The admiral would like you to focus on Lieutenant-Commander Tierney for the moment, however. She may be needed very soon."

The counselor nodded, smiled a farewell at Laerta, and walked away, evidently taking the admiral with him. Troi touched Laerta's arm and leaned closer. "I don't care for Jellico, either," she whispered.

Laerta blinked. "Was it that obvious?"

"You flinched when you heard his voice." Troi's head tilted; she appeared to be studying Laerta. "May I ask you a few questions?"

"You mean about the Asili and so forth. I'll answer any questions you want if you can promise the information will be used to keep those animals as far away from Federation space as possible."

"I'd like that as well. I know what they're capable of, and I don't like it." Troi glanced over her shoulder. "Do you know who the Sisnok are?"

"Yes. There were two of them with Bela. They were able to control me somehow, but not permanently. Otherwise I'm sure they would have tried to stop us when we got out of our cell and started disabling things. Tierney was able to figure out enough of their systems to cause enough of a distraction that we almost made it to their shuttle bay." Laerta looked across sickbay at Tierney, now attended by the counselor, the admiral, and a doctor. "Fred carried the Betazoid lady, and Bisfa helped Tierney in translating the legends on the panels."

Laerta hesitated, remembering their frantic flight from the cell after managing to down a young Asili who'd brought them the daily plate of food. Troi gripped Laerta's shoulder. "The Sisnok controlled you, but not the admiral?"

"They forced me aboard a shuttle. I guess the admiral didn't figure in their plans, or they couldn't control him."

"You don't feel any lingering after effects of being influenced by the Sisnok?"

Laerta paused to take inventory. "No. It was a very specific feeling, too, very odd. Like nothing I've ever felt before. I've been to Betazed, and telepathy doesn't frighten me. This was different--very cold and hard, if you know what I'm trying to say."

"I think I understand. They tried to control me as well, at one point. What confuses me is how they managed two Betazoids. I'm half human, you see, and they weren't successful with me."

"Maybe Bela overpowered them with brute strength. The man was in bad shape." Laerta shuddered at the memory of the man being torn from his weeping wife and removed, presumably to be used as food since he wasn't responding to attempts to awaken him.

"I've reminded you of traumatic things," Troi said softly. "I shouldn't. The rest of my questions can wait until you're feeling better."

"Anything I can do, I'll do. Any time." For Fred, who hadn't made it--who'd been torn apart by juvenile Asili even as he shouted for the rest of them to get to the shuttle bay. For Callais, who hadn't made it out of a hotel room on Deneva. For any other victims of whom she wasn't aware.

"Thank you, Ambassador." Troi smiled, patted her shoulder, and started to move away. Laerta caught her wrist.

"Please. My name's Laerta. I'm thinking of a career change."

"We may need good ambassadors very soon," Troi said. "Please don't let this horrible experience be your last attempt. Not all Alliance species are like the Asili, I'm sure."

"I don't know if I have it in me."

Troi leaned close again, her eyes full of pain and determination. "I may have lost my captain and my husband because of them. We are needed, because we are valuable to the Federation--your actions on Deneva were above and beyond the call of duty, and ambassadors who can think on their feet are definitely in demand. The admiral told me how you handled the delegation; I hope, for all our sakes, that you decide to remain an ambassador, after you've recovered."

"I obviously wasn't good enough to see what was going on under my nose."

"Weren't you? Or were you paying less attention to hunches and more attention to procedure?" Troi pursed her lips briefly before continuing. "You and I need to learn how to hone our intuition and voice our concerns rationally. I might have prevented some regrettable incidents myself, had I done so. But these are experiences from which we hopefully learn how to avoid further painful incidents."

"Maybe," Laerta replied, uncertain of why this was such a concern for the commander. There were other ambassadors, and plenty of admirals to take charge. Then Troi met her eyes and reminded her again that this was a Betazoid who could sense more than was spoken.

"We need to learn as much as we can about the Alliance in general, but it's becoming obvious that contact with no single species will help us in that," Troi murmured. "We need intelligent, intuitive people to help. It's going to be a herculean task. I hope you reconsider. In the meantime, rest and recover. Thank you for speaking with me, Laerta."

Troi crossed sickbay, glancing at Bisfa as she passed him, and joined the admiral and the others around Tierney's bed. Laerta recognized the name at last--Lwaxana Troi had mentioned a daughter in Starfleet, bragged about her in fact, and though this commander barely resembled the Betazoid ambassador, it had to be her. From Lwaxana's descriptions, one would expect a tall, imposing officer rather than this pretty and petite woman with lots of hair and sympathetic eyes. The determination, however--that would stay with Laerta. The look in those dark eyes when she spoke with such fervor.

Though Laerta wondered if it weren't desperation rather than hope behind the fervor.

"Hello, Ambassador," a nurse said cheerily, coming over to reach for the console over Laerta's head. "Would you like more private accommodations? The doctor says you can be moved down the hall into your own room, if you're ready."

"Sure. I'd like that. I've never been able to sleep in a roomful of people--unless one of them's making a speech, of course."

@@@@@@@@@@@@

The last of the fish escaped the container, zooming out into the coral. Deanna let the water drain from the clear cylinder and removed it, then leaned close to watch the new residents of the ready room fish tank make themselves at home.

"Come," she said absently when the annunciator sounded. People had been coming and going all morning; it was as though they didn't trust her to work alone. The least important reports brought various officers through the door.

This time, Counselor Davidson strode in. He stopped to peer into the tank. "New fish?"

"The feeder jammed and I forgot to replace it, I'm afraid. And I forgot to feed the lion fish as well." She hated how the lion fish's death had affected her, and still did--she'd always thought of it as symbolic somehow, and it'd become such a trademark of her captain that its death seemed more tragic than he would have considered.

"Well, the last week hasn't been easy. And you haven't been in here much." She hated the sympathy in his tone, the careful way he worded things. "You didn't want to replace it with another?"

"There aren't any left on board. These are donations from the tank in sciences and the one in the school." She tapped on the tank near the anenome. The clown fish ignored her. "They'll do fine."

"You sound upset."

"I'm fine, Counselor. Was there something you wanted?" She closed the panel over the tank and went to the replicator to dispose of the container.

"Yes. You're not fine, and you're avoiding me."

"I have responsibilities--"

"I realize this, otherwise I would have been in to see you sooner."

When she turned with two cups in hand, he was sitting in the chair facing the desk, so she pushed the coffee across to him and settled in the captain's chair with her tea. "How are our guests?"

"Doing well. The Asili are in two of the holodecks as suggested, and between Dr. Mengis, Mr. LaForge and Commander Tierney, we've seen some good results so far. And if that changes, they won't be able to eat real people."

"Good. What about the captain?"

It was the first time she'd asked about him since his self-imposed exile. Davidson's expression didn't change, but she could sense his worry and frustration. "I'd like to talk to you about him. Are you willing?"

"Would I have asked if I weren't?"

"What have you sensed from him?"

"Overall? He's frustrated and confused, sometimes angry, but most of the time he's resigned more than anything else." She sipped and tried not to appear anxious herself.

"He's not cooperative most of the time. He seems. . . distracted. As though he knows I'm there, but doesn't care. Lost in his own thoughts." Davidson set his coffee on the edge of the desk after one sip and met her gaze. "I don't quite know how to deal with that. Gregory says he's physically fine, so far as he could be. Nothing wrong with his brain that shows on any scan."

"Would you say he's depressed, or that he's simply focusing on what he's thinking?"

"I couldn't guess. I'm sorry." Davidson pursed his lips and braced himself before continuing. "How are you holding up?"

"I told you--"

"Deanna, you're not fine. The other officers are starting to worry. You're distracted. Jellico's got the idea it's something to do with the captain; I'm guessing Nechayev told him about the bond."

"Of course it's something to do with--it's also him, and the--" Her sudden anger at Nechayev for intruding on her privacy that way--sharing with Jellico of all people the most intimate part of her relationship with Jean-Luc!--broke her careful control. The tears didn't stop despite her blinking and frustrated application of a sleeve, then of the handkerchief Davidson passed to her.

"It's not fair," he said. "You have children, a husband who's ill, yet you also have his duties to look after and an admiral to deal with."

"And the damned fish died," she blurted. Covering her mouth with the handkerchief, she tried again to stop the sobs.

"It's only a fish."

"It's not just a fish--it's the only thing I can afford to feel about!"

Davidson leaned back in his chair, a blur through her tears, and that was for the best; she probably would have thrown her tea at him if she'd seen his expression of pity. But he surprised her by not sounding at all sympathetic.

"That's ridiculous. The captain wouldn't approve of this at all."

"The captain?" she blurted, mopping more of her makeup from her eyes.

"Of course not. This is unhealthy and not at all appropriate. You know better than to make yourself sick, trying to suppress all that rage and fear."

"I'm not angry, or afraid." Difficult to be convincing when residual sobs rose from her chest at irregular, unfortunately-frequent intervals.

"You're afraid to express perfectly understandable emotions regarding the circumstances you're in. This isn't something I'd expect of a former counselor--the captain, maybe, he's good at this sort of thing. Has it down to an art, or he did until you got to him. It makes me wonder if he'd respond to you, if you went to see him."

She blinked away the blurriness at last, to find him with elbows propped on the arms of his chair, his hands steepled before his mouth, brows knitted. "I don't think that would be appropriate. He wouldn't want me to see him. I'm sure he'll come to me when he's ready."

Davidson dropped his hands. "I don't know if he will ever be ready. I don't know if he could recover without you. Because it seems to me that he's lost something, either his bearings or himself, or motivation, and I think if he found you he'd be able to find his way back from wherever he's gone."

"I think you overestimate my role in previous recoveries, Counselor."

"I'm not thinking of past recoveries. I'm thinking about you, walling yourself away from everyone and burying yourself in work when you're not home with Yves, holding yourself together with nothing but determination. I'm thinking about a bond that apparently suffered some harm in everything that transpired with various telepaths and bodily injury. I'm trying to understand why a man who's actively participated in--or refused to be subjected to--counseling with me won't respond in the usual fashion."

"Just do your job, Counselor, and let me do mine."

Davidson nodded, raised an eyebrow, and leaned forward. "This is my job, Commander."

"Granted. But I can't go to him."

"Because you know he won't accept it? Or because you're afraid of how he'll react, or not react, as the case may be?" Davidson stood and hesitated, hand on hip, to deliver one more point. "Go see him. If it doesn't work, blame me. Now that you have someone else to blame, you shouldn't feel badly about any negative outcome."

After he'd gone, she watched the fish exploring the tank, letting her tears dry on her cheeks as her tea grew cold.

@@@@@@@@@@@@

Jean-Luc Picard entered Ten-Forward and hesitated, suddenly possessed by deja vu. It was late in the evening, and hardly anyone was there; two couples and a trio of lieutenants from engineering, at far-apart tables. And Deanna, sitting beneath a viewport in nearly the same spot, with nearly the same demeanor. He had just spent a week and a half living in memories. He remembered that first fateful encounter well, and fondly.

She had in her hands a padd, not hot chocolate, but she wore a dress and had her hair down. The faint glow of the padd's screen cast a greenish tinge on her face. The dress, he noted as he approached, was a dusky-blue, long-skirted one he recognized. When she finally looked up, the immediate smile she welcomed him with gave him all the encouragement he needed.

"Mind if I join you?"

She blinked, momentarily taken aback. "Of course not." She hadn't recognized the question for what it was, an echo from their past. No matter.

Her eyes didn't leave him as he took the chair to her right, which put most of the other people present out of his line of sight. He hesitated, and they watched each other in a moment of shared anxiety and relief. The table was small; his knee pressed against hers, as he'd scooted the chair close to hers. Under the table he reached for her leg and found her hand, sliding palm to palm with his, her fingers closing over his pinky and ring finger.

"It's good to see you," she murmured, her smile regaining strength. "I've been worried. A little afraid to come see you, though the counselor tried to reassure me."

He nodded, wishing he could touch her face. A short burst of feminine laughter from somewhere over his left shoulder reminded him of how public this was.

"I've been handling some correspondence," she was saying, now looking at the padds before her. "Mother is having another of her fits of mortality, she sent me a detailed list of things to be fixed around the Fifth House in an attempt to teach me how to manage it. I picked the ugliest tiles to replace the ones in the third floor hall, knowing she'd choose anything but what I did, once she rebounded from brief morbid ruminations and decided to reassert her independence. Marie wanted more recent pictures of Yves."

"How are you?"

She met his eyes again, smile fading. "Tired. But better, now." Her fingers tightened around his.

"I would have come sooner," he began, but the confessions all withered away, leaving him the shame of spending so many hours picking the words only to lose them.

"But?"

He couldn't look at her, instead counting the padds and noting there were three of them. One had familiar formatting--a systems report.

"I'm sorry," she said.

He glanced out at the stars. For the first time, he couldn't guess where they might be heading. It felt strange to be on his own ship and completely unaware of her next mission, or even her general status. "At least I'm not seeing aliens in the viewports any more."

He didn't realize her reaction until, after a long moment of silence, he turned to find her wide-eyed and almost in tears. She averted her eyes and somehow recovered.

"The doctor has new images of Amy," she whispered. "If you'd like to see them."

"I'd like that."

"There are messages for you, from our friends. From your friends. Admiral Nechayev asked after you, yesterday when I spoke with her." She tried smiling again. It looked like it hurt. "I even started to. . . to send one. . . ."

"Let's go," he said, indicating the door with a nod. "There has to be somewhere more private."

She picked up her padds and followed him out. In the lift, she took his hand again.

"I'm surprised you don't have another pip."

She looked askance at him. "Why do you think I would?"

"Because this is the perfect opportunity for them to push me out of the way. I can't be anything but a security risk to them now."

The lift stopped. She waited for him to go first, but came close behind. "Why is Geordi still an officer, then?"

"Telepathic control is not the same as brainwashing."

She waited until they were in their quarters to respond. When she turned around, she was suddenly very calm--an officer out of uniform. "I would know if you were under their influence again."

"Would you?" He took a step, closing the distance between them, and she held her ground, which left them almost nose to nose. "Have you shared this opinion with the admirals?"

"Of course."

He glanced down, at the padds in her hands. "I would have come home that night, if I could have been certain I was really free. I've spent the past week vacillating, trying to decide whether I could trust myself or not."

"Have you decided?" she whispered.

"Not really." He sighed, put his hands behind his back, and kept looking at her hands, which was safer than meeting her eyes. "How much of it was the aliens? They wouldn't have done anything specific about how I treated you--how could it have been--"

"It wasn't you." She gathered handfuls of the front of his shirt, tugging him closer, looking him in the eye. "It wasn't."

"I'm glad to hear you're so certain of it."

She said nothing for a long time. When he opened his eyes again, he saw exactly what he expected--tears quivering in her eyes, ready to spill. Firm reassurance. Determination. Pain.

"Your mind is repairing itself. It won't happen all at once. This uncertainty is temporary, Jean."

"But what if it isn't? What if I never wake up and find reality?" His voice got rougher. "What if all of it has been a dream, and I'm really still under that rubble on Khevlin?"

"You're not. You're all right." She bumped foreheads with him. "We're all right. Our bond would tell you otherwise. Wouldn't it?"

"I--"

"Please tell me you're coming home?"

"I don't know."

Deanna moved away, turned away, hung her head. "I don't think I can take this any more," she whispered.

He shut his eyes and tried to breath. Shaking his head, he thought about sports in which he once participated, favorite meals, hobbies he might still want to try--anything but the burning in his eyes and the tightening of his throat.

He opened his eyes. Stars through viewports, overhead. Stiff, uncomfortable cushions--asleep on the sofa, again, the padd he'd been reading on his chest. Sitting up, he massaged the back of his neck and groaned.

Another dream. Another variation on a familiar theme. His dreams had recombined the same elements, bits of his past and present, with the scenario over which he felt the most anxiety. He'd met her in Ten Forward, in the ready room, in this room, in their quarters--when would it end?

The annunciator startled him. "Computer, time."

"The time is twenty hundred oh four hours."

Odd. The counselor never came after dinner, let alone this late at night. Before he could ask for the visitor's identification the annunciator sounded again. "Come in."

The doors opened. Deanna entered the bare quarters, and he was certain this was yet another dream in a dream. She crossed the room silently, the loose jade dress she wore billowing around her knees, and sat with him on the sofa. Hands folded in her lap, she looked him in the eye and waited with the familiar patience she'd always shown him as a counselor.

For a while, he simply looked at her. It seemed to him that she was real. He remembered being able to tell. Having developed a bond then suffering the loss of it had made him more aware of its presence; this was either the most realistic of his dreams, or reality.

"Why are you here?"

Her steady gaze faltered. Making a pretense of studying her hands, she hesitated, collected herself, and answered carefully. "It's been a week. I've missed you."

Very similar to something she had said in another dream. He covered both her hands with one of his. "I miss you as well."

"The counselor hasn't been very encouraging." Now she appeared to study his fingers. "He says you seem disoriented."

"I remember him mentioning that." Among other things, some of them not real, he was certain. He contemplated a confession of why he felt so disoriented, but he'd done that before.

"You haven't asked to see me."

"I was afraid to." He'd asked, but only a couple of times, and probably not in reality. Or not in this dream-reality. Some of the dreams had seemed connected to others, as if they were alternate universes of their own, with their own continuity.

She met his eyes again, and this time, tears glittered in her eyes and clung to her lashes. She looked older than she was--or it was exhaustion, or stress, putting worry lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Withdrawing her hands, she placed one over his where it fell in her lap, and with the other she reached for him. He thought for a moment she was leaning in to kiss him, but when her fingers found the back of his neck, it made him shiver as if he'd been lightly shocked.

"Tell me you're real," he murmured. "Please be real."

Her chin dropped. The horror on her face shocked and angered him--he'd gotten careless, what with all the unreality he'd been fading in and out of, and even if this were a dream, hurting her was still the last thing he wanted. He pulled her close. She stiffened briefly then relaxed into his embrace and started to cry.

*Be real. This feels real. She has to be real, this isn't like any of the dreams.*

"I'm so sorry. It's all been so confusing -- last night, I. . . ." In any reality, she would want, and deserve, and be able to handle, the truth. "I've been sleeping so much since I came here, the dreams have been so vivid, and when I've been awake all I can think about is how to find reality. Until I started dreaming about waking up and thinking that, I thought I knew what reality was. I think I've also dreamed about the counselor, and since I've also thought about coming home I've dreamed at least a dozen times about confronting you, only to have you somehow express doubts about my sanity or whether I should come back to our quarters. I might not be safe. I'm afraid you were right to worry, that you should still worry, about the children's safety--"

She shoved him away, actually striking his ribs with the heels of her hands. Her fingers knotting his soft gray shirt, she glared at him, mouth tight with disapproval. It took her a few moments to speak.

"Am I real?" she asked, once she'd regained some composure.

He searched her eyes again, searched himself for verification. "I think--"

{You can't think, you have to know.}

It seemed an eternity since he had 'heard' her that way. After a few moments, he understood more--that he wasn't simply detecting her physical presence, but her, through the bond. The only response to make came spontaneously.

She softened, returned the kiss at once, and he found himself submerged--caught up in the drowning-but-not-suffocating sensation of heartfire, the most intimate manifestation of the bond.

Moments later, Deanna pulled away and eyed him in mild chastisement. "What?"

"It's good to be home."

She smiled, but wouldn't let what she'd sensed drop. "And?" When he reached for her again, she caught his hands.

"I was only thinking. . . it was no wonder so many of the hallucinations featured drowning of the more dire sort."

Her smile turned to the sort of sad-yet-indulgent, almost wistful sort she rarely gave him any more. "You and your obsessive self-analysis. None of what happened was your fault, you know."

"How does making a connection between hallucinations and heartfire have anything to do with guilt? Especially if I'm not feeling particularly guilty."

"At the moment. All trains of thought about this incident will lead you back to how much of the blame you bear for it. You've followed this pattern before. I'm trying to circumvent some of it, for many reasons, some of them selfish, others having more to do with you and Yves." Some of the weariness she'd brought with her returned to her face. "I've had enough suffering already. Please come home. Please don't hate yourself for not being able to stop any of it. There were aliens with motivations that had more to do with their survival, using us to their own ends. How could any of us predict any of it in a usefully-detailed way?"

He detected many hours of official logs, reports and encounters with admirals behind this summation, and just the thought of all the details he didn't yet know made him tired again. She'd been in command, making difficult decisions, not the least of which had to do with him--she didn't need any questions from him right now.

"If I had known--" that she would be real, that he would be able to tell, that the bond hadn't been broken, that she wouldn't judge him as she had in many of the dreams he'd had--"that it would be this way, I would have come home sooner. Cygne."

She bowed her head as if trying to hide the tears, but when she looked up again, she had renewed her happy smile. "Here," she whispered, putting a hand to her abdomen. At once, he did the same, and she slid hers out of the way, placing it over his and pressing his palm in. The soft thumping struck his thumb, then the heel of his hand.

"Marvelous."

"She's active this time of night." She glanced around. "You're ready to go? Anything here you want to take?"

He retrieved the picture from the end table and followed her out, feeling as though he were escaping a prison cell. "Is that your new nightgown?"

"No, just something I could put on over it. I was in a hurry. Sensing you interrupted a dream I was having, and I didn't know whether my dream was real or not, at the time."

"I know the feeling."

The corridor lights were at half-intensity -- ship's night. And they were mostly empty, as they tended to be mid-shift. He stayed close, sliding an arm around her waist as they came to a halt at the door to their quarters.

"Thank you," he murmured, kissing her hair.

"You're welcome. Though I'm not sure what you mean."

"Everything." He bent and caught her up in his arms easily, though his knees threatened to buckle, and swept through the door into the dark living room before she could protest. She was on her feet again before the doors closed--he had almost dropped her. The gesture wouldn't go over well for either of them if he hurt her in the process.

"That was interesting. The last time you swept me off my feet, it wasn't quite so literal." One hand went to the small of her back, the other over her abdomen.

"Beginnings deserve recognition, even if they come in the middle of a story."

"You're such a romantic." She tugged his hand, and when he didn't immediately follow, she asked, "Coming to bed? You're as tired as I am."

"I want to see Yves. Don't worry, I won't wake him."

"All right. Don't let the dog surprise you," she said, turning for the bedroom door.

The dog still startled him. When the lights brightened just enough for him to see, the animal didn't move; it reclined at the end of Yves' bed, head and ears erect, at attention but not apparently alert. Picard waited at arm's length, but the dog didn't twitch.

Until he took another step. The ears rose another millimeter to near-vertical, and the long nose turned as if he'd finally moved into range. The dog extended its head until it could touch Picard's hand with its nose, licked his finger, and resumed its former stiff stance. It appeared to be some sort of hound, lean of limb and red like leaves in fall.

Pausing a moment to contemplate the un-doggy behavior of this very dog-looking creature, Picard stepped past it and looked down at his son. The covers were bunched and wrapped around Yves as usual; he always tossed and turned in his sleep, one of many behaviors Deanna claimed were due to being his father's son. Only part of his face was visible, and his thumb had gone in his mouth, his fingers curling over his nose. Amazing, how angelic he could be in slumber.

On his way out, Picard looked the dog in the eye. It didn't blink.

Deanna had already discarded the dress and gotten in bed. "He's an android, by the way. Data sent him," she said as he came in the room.

"Oh. You could have told me."

"And ruin the surprise? He didn't speak to you, obviously. I've asked him to be quiet and not move about while Yves is sleeping."

She watched him step out of his shoes. He stood next to the bed, staring down at her.

"Is something wrong?" she asked softly.

"You're certain about this?"

"Would I have brought you back with me if I weren't? You don't want to be here?"

"What I want isn't--"

"--is as much of an issue as what I want, and if you're expressing concerns it's not likely you'll do anything, is it?" She sat up, pushing her hair back over her shoulders. "Do you want to be here?"

"It's all I wanted. I can't--" He glanced at the viewport. No images there. In the dim lighting, shadows loomed in every corner and behind every piece of furniture, but he saw no aliens with gleaming eyes, no gulls. "I can't stop thinking this is a dream. It's the reality I want, but when I've done nothing but wake from dreams for so long. . . ."

"That will pass in time."

Her voice had an odd, hollow quality, and when he turned from the bookcase, where the ceramic swan sat proudly whole, he discovered she'd begun to cry. He sat on the edge of the bed and reached for her; before his fingertips could touch her face, she lunged into his arms. At the same time, he felt again the heartfire, not smothering but all-encompassing. Now it was her seeking comfort, reaching for him as she lost her tenuous hold on her composure.

"It's over," he whispered, holding her, sliding closer so they wouldn't both tip over on the floor.

"Not over." She gulped back a sob, trying to stop crying. Her words, uttered into his shirt, were almost inaudible. "I wanted to be stronger than I was. What else could I have done? We had orders. There were so many ships. . . . I couldn't have stayed to find you. We all would have been dead. And now--now. . . ."

"You did the right thing." Though he didn't know all the details yet, he knew her, the way she handled herself in a crisis. She tended to make decisions and come to conclusions he wouldn't have necessarily reached, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. They were alive, the ship in one piece, and though she was exhausted she didn't give him the impression there was a crisis going on at the moment. She'd done the right thing; everything seemed as right as it could be.

"I wish that I had," she said, forcing out the words. Her fingers tightened around fistfuls of his shirt, knuckles pressing into his back. "I wish they had."

"What are you saying?"

She sat back, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders, and let tears fall freely from her red-rimmed eyes. Resolve and determination replaced despair in her face. "It will work out. But it's not over."

"I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific than that. Between all the lapses and being locked away alone for so long--"

"Jean. I'm sorry." Her palm felt warm and moist against his cheek. "If I had known what you needed was to reconnect with me, I would have come to you sooner."

Not having anything coherent to say, and knowing she knew exactly how he felt, he stood. "I'll be back in a minute." He took a nightshirt from a drawer on his way to the bathroom.

The flower in its protective box still sat on the top shelf over the sink. He ducked into a sonic shower and cleaned his teeth simultaneously, then eyed his reflection in the mirror. With an improved diet, rest, and the doctor's diligence, the puffiness around his eyes, the remnants of scarring, and the gauntness were in the past. Still, he looked again at the flower, and that he could not remember putting it out for her bothered him. Remembering so much, yet finding tiny gaps like this one, only proved that he had not recovered from the hated amnesia. He couldn't look upon this return home as a final step in healing.

When he returned to the bed, she had settled on her side, watching him approach. "You kept the flower," he said as he got under the covers.

"Hm." She kissed his cheek and rested her chin on his shoulder. "You didn't leave a hair brush."

"What?"

"I had to keep the flower. I'm not like my mother--I want to remember everything."

"This doesn't sound like it would make a very cheerful conversation. Lights off."

She didn't reply. In the darkness, he noted the warp effect outside the viewports, and knew they were on their way to something. Not knowing what disturbed him. His ship, his mission, but not until he could be certified fit for duty. How depressing. Unlike a physical malady, there were no guarantees on short recovery periods for mental illness.

This wasn't a good train of thought--Deanna sighing within centimeters of his ear reminded him he had an audience even when he didn't speak.

"A hair brush," he echoed. "I'm just wondering what use I would find for one. Though if it makes you happy, that would be reason enough, I suppose."

"It's not a brush in itself that would be important. It's the reminder--something used by you, something touched by you, left for me to bring back thoughts of the last time you used it. For my mother, the hair brush she found in a drawer after all Daddy's other things had been put away was the item. He used to brush her hair for her, when it was much longer than it is. . . ."

Her fingers gripped chest hairs. He covered her hand with his; the pulling eased.

"But I don't need a reminder. You came home," she murmured, pushing closer to kiss his cheek.

He held her hand to his chest and watched the stars, leaving the rest of the sentence unspoken--in spite of her smile and the warmth in her voice, the words were hovering in the air above them, irrefutable, reminder of the constant danger they subjected themselves to and usually denied. Yes, he had come home.

This time.

@@@@@@

@#@#@#@

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the Madhouse Boards--Credit Where Credit Is Due
> 
> (In order of appearance)
> 
> Beginning of Act One--a clown's smirk in the skull of a baboon (last two stanzas) - e.e. cummings
> 
> Sonnet VI, Sonnets from the Portugese, Elizabeth Barrett Browning
> 
> Peace, Sara Teasdale
> 
> Beginning of Act Two--The End, Amy Lowell
> 
> Beginning of Act Three--the trick of finding what you didn't lose, e.e. cummings
> 
> Beginning of Act Four--Lady, i will touch you with my mind, e.e. cummings
> 
> The excerpt of the poem Deanna finds Jean-Luc reading is "Love in the Asylum" by Dylan Thomas, from which the title of the novel is taken.


End file.
